7. Lina
Lina
On my ninth day at Sierra, I returned the shirt Jonathan had lent to me after the whole fiasco on my first day.
With the tension brewing between us, I couldn’t find the right time to give him his shirt back.
I figured I might as well do it today before too much time had passed and things got too tense.
“Dr. Lo.” I hurried toward him before he left.
Carmen and Grace had already clocked out, and Sheryl was staying behind to help me close the pharmacy today.
The only acknowledgment he made was a glance over his shoulder.
It was a slow day for the pharmacy, and there were no patients waiting.
So, I told Sheryl I was going to be quick as I followed Jonathan into the break room.
He glanced at me as he reached for the coat he wore this morning from a hook on the wall. The muscles of his neck stiffened.
Without saying anything, he arched a brow at me. This was what our conversations had now boiled down to, with me usually doing the talking and him resorting to only nonverbal communication.
“I wanted to return your shirt to you,” I said. I quickly reached into my locker and pulled out a paper bag with his shirt neatly folded inside. “I’m sorry it took me so long to give it back. I couldn’t find the time to get it washed until this past weekend.”
Jonathan kept his gaze trained on an obscure corner of the room. He hummed, and that was his only response to my statement.
As I handed the bag to him, his hand haphazardly grabbed mine by accident. He immediately yanked his palm away with a sharp wince as if my skin were fire itself. I blinked at his dramatic antics as he glowered at me, finally locking eyes with me. I couldn’t help but perk up, holding my stance.
“Have a good night, sir,” I forced myself to say.
He didn’t say anything as he threw his coat over his forearm. He snatched the bag from me and was out the door without a single regard to my presence.
I thought a bit about how we were in high school, the memory of one of our last interactions before graduation coming to mind. It was when I had let him know, as gently as I possibly could and without gloating, that I was the victor of our final competition.
I had walked out of the counselor’s office, brimming with excitement and happiness.
I was going to be class valedictorian. Pride pumped rapidly through me because I could finally say I did it.
I was the daughter of Hmong parents—immigrants who came from a war-torn country, who could barely speak English, let alone read and write it—and I was the top student out of the 358 people in my graduating class.
Growing up, academics was the one thing I knew I would excel in. Sometimes, it was the only thing I excelled in. More than that, it was the only thing I could control. As a child, and later as a teen, studying and getting good grades were the few things in my life I had autonomy over.
So, when I saw Jonathan waiting outside, I stopped to let him know—to ease in the news that I had won the last academic duel I challenged him to.
Ever since the freshmen honors courses we took together, he became my greatest academic rival.
He made sparring for the best scores and the best grades fun.
I just didn’t realize he always had this animosity toward me.
‘You should still be proud of yourself, Jonathan,’ I said gently, giving him an encouraging smile. ‘Second place is still quite an impressive feat. Congratulations.’
Jonathan paused for a long second, neither reacting nor even breathing. I almost thought time had frozen until his wide lips grinned tightly. He tilted his head in this sharp manner. A habit he always did, and still occasionally does now as an adult, when he talked to me.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Congrats to you, too, by the way. It must feel nice to know having good grades is the peak of your personality.’
I shrugged then, not realizing his words were meant to be a bitter jab. ‘What can I say? I love being the best. It’s as simple as that.’
His lips twisted tighter into what I realized now wasn’t a good-natured smile, but a sneer.
It became clear to me that what I once perceived as playful banter and coy antics from Jonathan Lo throughout our four years of high school was thinly veiled dislike.
He wasn’t being dishonest when he said he never liked me.
I just never realized that was the case until I looked back at everything in hindsight.
I immediately pulled myself out of my memories and returned to my responsibilities. The sigh I let out was too obvious, and Sheryl turned to me from her spot at the filling station. I stretched a wobbly smile across my teeth.
“Sorry,” I apologized. “Long day.”
“No need to apologize. He hasn’t been the nicest to you,” said Sheryl.
Sweat beaded lightly across my forehead. Well, that was also true. It hadn’t been easy working with a boss who didn’t like you.
On the tenth day, I was just finishing the returns for unclaimed prescriptions when Jonathan’s crisp, clear laughter rang through the pharmacy.
He had been working with his last patient of the day for some time now.
Despite being the opening pharmacist, he made no indication he was in a rush, giving her his full and undivided attention.
I glanced over. A chatty Hmong woman in her late 50s stood on the other side of the glass divider at the counter.
She had graying hair tied into a tight bun, beautiful wrinkles that creased the corners of her eyes when she smiled, and a big laugh.
She looked relaxed and cheerful to be here, much like every patient who talked to Jonathan.
The patient asked in Hmong, “Es, mi tub, zaum i kuv tuaj nqa tshuaj es koj hais tias koj tsis tau muaj tug no es, koj puas tham tau hluas nkauj na?”
By the way, son. Do you still not have a girlfriend? Last time I came to get my medication, you mentioned you weren’t dating.
“Tsis tau os,” he laughed lightheartedly. “Tsis muaj tus nyiam kuv ne.”
Not yet. Nobody likes me.
I had never heard Jonathan speak the language before. To be honest, I didn’t even know he could. He was a Hmong man, of course. Being a child of Hmong immigrants who also escaped the Secret War in Laos, I’m sure he grew up surrounded by all our culture and traditions.
However, I’d always assumed he could only understand it.
Hmong as a language wasn’t hard to learn if you grew up in a household where it was the primary language.
On the other hand, if you had parents who emphasized learning English to properly assimilate into American culture, it would be harder.
The language can be hard to grasp because of its eight different tones; a slight tonal variation could change the entirety of the word itself.
Most Hmong-Americans speak a blend of Hmong and English these days, especially the ones who were born and raised here. It was easier for us. But Jonathan’s Hmong had a clear and smooth cadence. He sounded even better than me, if I were honest.
The patient, like any Hmong auntie who didn’t want to hear your nonsense, waved her hand dismissively.
She quickly pulled out her phone saying, “Txhob hais li koj. Kuv tus niam hluas muaj ib tug ntxhais muaj hnub nyoog nees nkaum rau xyoo. Nws yuav kawm tiav nws daim ntawv mavxwmtawj. Nws zoo nkauj kawg. Kuv xav tias neb yuav sib phim heev.”
Don’t say that. My younger sister has a twenty-six-year-old daughter. She is almost done with her master’s degree. She is pretty. I think you two will match well.
Before Jonathan could even decline, the patient’s phone was shoved across the opening of the divider. In response to her offer, he laughed warmly. “Ua tsaug os tus phauj. Tiam sis kuv khwv khwv tsis muaj sij hawm los tham hluas nkauj.”
Thank you, Auntie. But I am very busy with no time to date.
“Kuv lam muab nws tus xov tooj rau koj seb koj puas hu tham nws os,” continued the patient.
I’ll just give you her number if you want to call and talk to her.
Heat washed over me as Sheryl and I exchanged glances.
Sheryl looked excited and giddy, while I stifled a laugh.
Although the situation was hilarious, I got a bit exasperated.
Not for Jonathan, but for the poor niece.
Her aunt was throwing her private information at a random stranger at the local pharmacy without her consent or knowledge.
Jonathan held up both of his hands with a light and easygoing voice. “Auntie, I mean it—I don’t have time to date right now.”
The patient didn’t take the hint and refused to leave until Jonathan jotted down her niece’s phone number. “Here. Her number is this one.”
“Next time,” nodded Jonathan, firmly. I could practically hear the wide yet gentle grin I was certain he was wearing. “Right now, I’m busy with my work here. Why don’t you give me her phone number next time?”
The patient huffed with a little pout. “You youngsters are all alike.”
Jonathan chuckled. “We’re too busy with our lives to focus on dating.”
The patient shook her head and dismissively waved her hand. But the smile on her lips was huge, and her eyes sparkled as she motioned toward the exit.
“Fine.” She was halfway out the pharmacy when she turned back to call out to Jonathan. “But you promise you’ll take her number next time, right?”
He nodded. “Of course!”
When the door swung closed, Sheryl let out a laugh as she went out to lock the door after that patient. It was now the end of the day, and all that was left to do was light cleaning and locking up the pharmacy.
She laughed, “Let me guess. She asked you to marry her daughter? That’s your third proposal of the week, by the way.”
“It was her niece. And she didn’t ask me to marry her. She asked me to date her.”
Sheryl looked at me as she crossed the waiting area to where I stood on the floor, and I smiled with her. She asked, “What’s the difference? She’s asking you to date her niece with marriage in mind.”