#ReadWithMC (opens in new tab)-Welcome to Marie Claire's virtual book club. It's a pleasure to meet you, and for the month of September we will be reading Helen Huang's "The Heart Principle" (opens in a new tab), the third book in the "Kissing Index" series (opens in a new tab) featuring violinist Anna Sun. Anna tries to continue a one-night stand after her boyfriend says he wants an open relationship, but instead meets Quan, the man who will change her life. Read an excerpt from the novel below and learn how to join the virtual book club here (opens in a new tab). (You really don't have to get off the couch, just click on the link below).

This is the last time we start over.

That's what I tell myself anyway. I think that every time. But every time, something happens. I make a mistake, I think I can do better, I hear what people will say in my head.

So I stop and go back to the beginning, trying to do it right this time.

And this time is really the last time.

Except that it isn't.

I have spent the last six months repeating the same bars over and over again, like a figure-eight walking rhino in a zoo. These notes no longer make sense to me. But I keep trying. Until my fingers hurt, my back aches, and my wrists throb every time I draw my bow on the strings. I ignore everything and give everything to the music. Only when the timer rings do I lower the violin from my chin.

My head is spinning, my throat is parched. I turned off my lunch alarm and forgot to eat. That happens more often than I'd like to admit. If it weren't for the dozens of alarms on my cell phone, I might have inadvertently ended myself by now. I don't keep plants out of concern for their lives. I do have pets. Rock. His name is "Rock" which is very creative.

The alarm notification on my cell phone said "THERAPY" and I chuckled and turned it off. Some people enjoy therapy. Some people enjoy therapy. For me, it's exhausting work. I can't help but think that my therapist secretly hates me.

Still, I drag myself into the bedroom to change. I decide to try this therapy because trying this and that on my own doesn't work. My parents would be disgusted at the waste of money if they knew, but I'm desperate and they can't begrudge me the dollars they don't know I'm spending. I take off the pajamas I've been wearing all day and put on my workout clothes, which I have no intention of exercising in. It's very revealing, yet somehow this seems more appropriate in public. I don't question why people do it. I just observe and imitate. That's how you get along in this world.

Outside, the smell of car exhaust and restaurant cooking wafts through the air, and people are biking, shopping, or having a late lunch at a cafe. I walked up the steep hill, weaving my way through pedestrians, wondering if any of them were going to the symphony tonight. My favorite Vivaldi would be playing. Without me.

I took a leave of absence because I can't play if I'm stuck in this loop. I have not told my family. They will tell me to stop indulging myself and change my mind. Tough love is our way

Being hard on yourself won't work now. You can't work harder than you are now.

When I arrived at the modest little building where the therapists and other mental health professionals have their clinics, I pressed the PIN "222" key to enter and headed up the musty stairs to the second floor. There was no reception desk or living room, so I headed straight for room 2A. I raised my fist toward the door but hesitated before making contact. I looked at my cell phone; it was 1:58 PM.

Not knowing what to do, I shifted my weight from foot to foot. Everyone knows that being late is not good, but neither is coming in early. Once I came early to a party to find the host with his pants down. His girlfriend had her face in his crotch. That was no fun for anyone.

Of course, the best time to arrive somewhere is right on time.

So here I stand, tortured by indecision. Should I knock or should I wait? If I knock early, I might get her in trouble. On the other hand, if I wait, what if she gets up to go to the bathroom and finds me standing outside the door, grinning creepily?' I don't have enough information, but I try to think about what she might think and modify my behavior accordingly. I want to make the 'right' decision.

I check my cell phone several times, and when the time indicates 2:00 PM, I exhale in relief and knock. Three times, firmly, like I mean it.

The therapist opens the door and greets me with a smile, but no handshake. No handshake. I was confused at first, but now I know what to expect and I like it.

"Nice to see you, Anna. Come in. Make yourself at home," she motions for me to enter and waves at the cups and water kettle on the counter." "Tea." "Water."

I made myself a cup of tea, set it on the coffee table, and then sat down in the middle of the couch across from her armchair. By the way, her name is Jennifer Aniston. No, not that Jennifer Aniston. I don't think she's ever been on TV or dated Brad Pitt, but she is tall and, in my opinion, attractive. She is in her mid-fifties, thin, and always wears moccasins and handmade jewelry. Her long hair is a grayish sandy brown, and I can't remember the color of her eyes, even though I just saw them. It's because I concentrate on the space between people's eyes. Eye contact messes with my brain so I can't think and this is a handy trick to make it look like I'm doing what I should be doing. Let's hear what her moccasins look like.

"Thanks for meeting me," I say. The fact that I am actually grateful is immaterial, but it is nonetheless true. For added emphasis, I wrinkle the corners of my eyes and smile my warmest smile. I have practiced it so many times in the mirror that I am confident it looks right. Her smile confirms it.

"Of course," she says, putting her hand on her chest to show she is moved.

I wonder if she is behaving the same way I am. How much of what people say is real and how much is polite?" is anyone really living their own life, or are we all reading lines from a giant script written by someone else?

Then it starts with a review of the week, how it went, did we make any progress at work, etc. I remain neutral and explain that nothing has changed. This week, like the week before it, everything was the same. My days are always basically the same. I wake up in the morning, have coffee and half a bagel, and practice my violin until my cell phone alarm tells me to stop. An hour for scales, four hours for music. Every day. But no progress. I get to page four of this piece by Max Richter and, if I'm lucky, I start over. And then redo. And then we start over. Over and over and over again.

From The Hart Principle by Helen Hoang. Used by permission of the publisher, Berkley. Copyright © 2021 by Helen Hoang.

If you like audio, listen to the excerpt below (opens in a new tab).

Audio excerpt courtesy of Dreamscape Media, LLC