4. Jonathan
Jonathan
The boundary between professionalism and impropriety is a fairly thin line when you work with someone who was beyond capable of provoking you.
I didn’t know how easy it was to cross that line, but now I do. All because of Lina Lee, so I’d learned to keep my mouth shut ever since. I avoided being alone with her anywhere inside the pharmacy. Or outside, when it was even easier to cross that boundary.
That was never the kind of manager I wanted to be. I had my fair share of horrible bosses when I was a young adult working part-time jobs, and I hated them. I told myself that if I ever got the chance, I would never be the kind of leader who was vindictive.
Despite my clear decision to avoid her, I knew exactly where she was. I even knew which direction she breathed in. I could easily track her out of the corner of my eyes, by the scent of her shampoo, or even by the sound of her footsteps.
It had been a week since she started working here—since I had treated her like an asshole. It had also been a week since I last looked her in the face.
I hadn’t apologized.
It didn’t make me feel any better about it, but the boulder-sized ego I was carrying on my shoulders kept stopping me.
It left me with nothing to do except let Lina fuel my anger, my agitation, and letting her consume my mind. I went to sleep thinking about her and dreaming about her. Ever since she started working here, I woke up every day with her at the center of my sanity.
I was obsessed with her.
I kept analyzing her expression from that night in the parking lot.
Each time I went back to that memory, I could taste the bitterness of the words I threw at her.
They were meant to put Little Miss Perfect in her place.
But they only intensified her presence in my head—her flawless and unbothered expression, and her retort.
‘Don’t worry, Dr. Lo. The feelings are mutual. ’
I didn’t want to think about her. But I couldn’t stop either.
“Let me guess”—stated my older cousin, Shoua—“it’s Lina again.”
I hadn’t even sat down at the bar yet. Despite that, I was certain her name was branded across my forehead like she owned me and every inch of my mind.
I took a deep breath and let the chatter, the laughter, and the various orders of drinks from patrons ring in the air.
The brewery we were at was popular and packed with plenty of people for a Friday night.
But it wasn’t packed enough to drown out my silence.
I glanced at Shoua. Her eyes were bright and curious. It felt like she was watching me, like she was waiting in anticipation. For what, exactly? I wasn’t even sure. I had already made it clear how much I despised working with Lina.
“You look horrible,” she kindly pointed out. She looked up at the tall and burly man beside her as she sipped her mojito. “Want to bet it’s Lina keeping him up at night?”
Anthony Hughes, her boyfriend and my childhood friend, grinned. His light-brown eyes twinkled with amusement. Over the loud chatter of the brewery, he let out his iconic yet annoying hyena-like laugh. It was nothing short of a high-pitched yodel.
“I’m gonna bet a kiss that it is,” he nodded at her.
She beamed, running her hand through her thick and straight black hair. Her cheeks flushed red over her bronzed skin. I rolled my eyes like a kid stuck between two lovebird parents. I waved down the bartender, ordering a stout. I needed a drink to deal with these two for the rest of the night.
I asked them, “And what about it? I don’t like Lina Lee.”
“Ding ding!” chimed Anthony, leaning in to peck Shoua on the lips. She giggled happily while I groaned into my hands.
“She’s annoying, alright?” I countered.
The couple turned to look at me with the same expression: raised eyebrows and amused smirks. “Is it her work ethic that’s bothering you? Or is it something else?” asked Shoua.
As a fellow pharmacist, Lina Lee wasn’t lazy.
When our techs were busy, she didn’t shy away from doing even the tiniest of tasks.
In fact, she went above and beyond to do her job.
It was just the way she went about it—the lack of warmth in her voice when she spoke to our patients, her vacant expressions even when interacting with our team.
It was no different from her high school self, the way she blended into the walls with her stiff, mechanical personality.
The only thing that had ever made her expressive was when she did better than everyone else.
The world around me ceased as memories of her from high school drifted to the forefront of my mind. How could I forget the way her mouth had coiled into this egotistical, serpentine smirk after she had walked out of our high school counselor’s office?
She didn’t need to say anything for me to know I’d lost our rivalry for class valedictorian.
It was a competition she had proudly come to me with, issuing the challenge face to face at the beginning of senior year.
She acted like we hadn’t been academic rivals since freshman year, fighting to be the top student after being placed in the same Geometry, English, and Biology Honors courses.
There were several times during our freshman and sophomore years when I had considered being friends with her.
She was intelligent—and I knew that from the moment she had raised her hand, as rapidly as I had done, to answer questions during Biology.
It was a morning class . . . No one was that enthusiastic about Biology so early in the day.
And because like drew to like, I wanted to be her friend. If not, then at least her study buddy.
But Lina was a lone wolf who was fine with her pack of one.
I offered to help her study many times throughout our first two years of high school together.
Often it was whenever she would get 90% on pop quizzes or exams, which was surprising.
It was highly unusual for her to score so low.
With me being the victor when she underperformed, I always offered to help her study, or I invited her to group studies with me and our classmates.
It was meant to be a truce. It wasn’t just for show, or an opportunity for me to be pompous or act like I was the better than her. It was genuine and sincere, and so was her response.
Her reaction was always the same: her expression was rigid and icy, with a frown on her face, and a raspy-but-definitive ‘No.’ Such a stark difference to her attitude most of the time.
When she scored highest or walked out of our classrooms with the best grades, her chin was tipped high, and she was all cocky smiles and bright eyes.
I took the hint that she wasn’t looking for a friend or a study buddy after my tenth attempt—she had just gotten a solid B+ for an exam in AP Chemistry—and I settled for being her rival instead. Although I couldn’t deny the deep hurt I felt since I saw camaraderie in her.
We always wanted to be the best student, and we both shared the same interest in pursuing a career in medicine.
We even volunteered at the same hospital and crossed paths consistently for years over weekends and summer breaks.
It would’ve been nice to be her friend. To exchange tips on how to get into various medical volunteer programs and discuss which colleges to attend.
But that kind of relationship was a firm nope from her.
We were in a competition all four years of sharing advanced classes together—from racing to answer questions in AP European History to getting the best scores on all our exams in AP Calculus.
We were academic rivals to the very end.
‘You should still be proud of yourself, Jonathan,’ she had said softly, pausing in front of me as confusion raced through my mind.
There was such a contrast between her cocky, triumphant expression and her unusually gentle words that, for a moment, I thought I was class valedictorian.
Then, she continued running her mouth. ‘Second place is still quite an impressive feat. Congratulations.’
I didn’t know if her words were meant to be encouraging or condescending, but it only solidified how much I disliked her. I never liked the way she wore her smug smirk, flaunting her perfection around any chance she could: her answers, her scores, her grades.
Or her perfectly robotic composure—intact even when Daniel Song called her a ‘frigid bitch.’ This was in AP Calculus, after she had flat out refused to help explain antiderivatives to him when he asked. Kindly, too. She was the only one who aced the pop quiz that day.
I tried to be amiable throughout high school with her, but that moment with Daniel just proved the one thing I never liked about her: she liked to win.
And so, did I.
Just in different ways. She liked to win and rub it in other people’s faces. I liked to win and still be kind about it.
I remembered tugging my mouth to mirror hers, angling my head to the side as I continued to stand in front of her.
‘Thanks,’ I retorted. Fiery agitation burned my chest as I puffed it out with a deep breath.
‘Congrats to you, too, by the way. It must feel nice to know having good grades is the peak of your personality.’
Nothing anyone could say or do ever disturbed that frigid nature of hers.
She didn’t blink once as her mouth pulled tighter and she shrugged. ‘What can I say? I love being the best. It’s as simple as that.’
I opened my mouth to explain to Shoua and Anthony why I didn’t like Lina. “It’s not that she’s a bad worker. She’s a perfectly capable pharmacist. What bothers me is that she’s always so damn . . . whatever she is. Robotic. Rude. Dry.” But my elaboration fell flat.
Neither my cousin nor childhood friend seemed to empathize with me. Instead, they continued to arch their eyebrows higher.
“If your previous pharmacy manager hired her, then she couldn’t possibly be that horrible,” said Anthony.