Page 1 of Strictly Against Policy

CHAPTER 1

Lina

I’m so fucking late, I thought.

Dampness spread down the hollow of my spine to the base of my back. I took a deep breath.

I hated first impressions. I hated being in that awkward position of meeting someone for the first time. I hated the overbearing pressure of being memorable. Warm. Likable.

It only takes the human brain seven seconds to assess whether a stranger is likable or not. In mere seconds, we discern whether the person we just met is agreeable, competent, or even trustworthy. Based solely on various factors such as vocal inflection, body language, and general attitude. Or we determine the person to be the opposite: rude, inept, distrustful, and possibly dangerous.

For thousands of years, humans have been built to measure other humans within seconds of meeting through the power of observation. Once a first impression is solidified, it becomes the basis of our opinion of that person. It’s often hard to change that first perception—whether good or bad—despite eventual evidence pointing to the contrary.

As I recited those words from an undergrad psych class I took years ago, dread and anxiety flooded the pit of my stomach. Sweat beaded across my forehead and upper lip as I tried to stay just ten miles over the speed limit, weaving through the midday traffic after rushing to get on the freeway. But I was failing to keep my emotions under wraps.

I glanced at the time on the dashboard of my car. 11:15 a.m. So much for first impressions. I was late on my first day at the small, independent pharmacy I was recently hired at. The anxiety of starting a new job, of having to integrate into a new environment, was so overwhelming that I couldn’t fall asleep last night.

I got maybe a good six hours of sleep; it would’ve been less if my alarm went off on time. Instead, I woke up on my own, barely fifteen minutes ago, in a state of panic.

I was supposed to clock in at 8:45 a.m. Dr. John Tsukamoto, the now-retired pharmacy manager and owner, had intended for me and the pharmacist taking over his duties to open together earlier today. My intention this morning was to arrive at 8:40 a.m., with a dozen fresh doughnuts in hand for my new team members and make a great first impression.

Now I was two and a half hours late, with absolutely nothing but shame in the form of perspiration dripping down my face. I called the pharmacy with quivering fingers at a stoplight. The phone call rang through my car’s speakers twice before the voice of a woman on the other end answered.

“Hello, this is Sierra Pharmacy. How may I help you?” she asked.

My throat felt irritatingly dry as I tried to tamp down the urge to bite my nails. My apprehension from the unplanned morning was pushing me toward this horrible habit again.

“Hi, this is Lina Lee. I’m the new pharmacist starting today. May I speak with the pharmacy manager for a moment?” I stated.

“Sure,” answered the woman, presumably a pharmacy technician.

I listened to the usual sounds of a busy pharmacy as I waited. There were some murmurs in the background, the clicks of a keyboard, and another technician’s voice as she confirmed a customer’s name.

“Hello?” asked a man’s voice on the other end. “This is the pharmacy manager speaking.”

“H-hi.” My voice cracked. My palms became sweaty, and the steering wheel almost slipped out of my control as I made a turn. “I’m Lina Lee, the new staff pharmacist starting today. I’m so sorry about being late this morning. I⁠—”

“That’s perfectly fine,” he quipped coolly. “Take your time to get here.”

Unsure of how to respond, I replied with a simple, “Thank you.”

“No problem.” His voice was a low and irritated mumble that made my stomach drop. “We hope to see you soon, Dr. Lee.”

I immediately felt the burn of his words. Although they weren’t sharp by any means, they were icy enough for me to know I messed up. At least he continued to bid me a polite goodbye before ending the call. The need to gnaw on my nails surged again. I glanced at the GPS for my estimated time of arrival: five more minutes.

I scrambled out as soon as I parked my car, desperately shrugging on my white coat. I slammed the car door with so much force that a passerby turned to stare. I ignored her in favor of fumbling with my bag, trying to sling it onto my shoulder, and taking a sip of my much-needed coffee.

My feet pounded the asphalt as I made my way to the small, cozy-looking neighborhood pharmacy. I forced myself to smile just as I was about to grab the door handle. I was ready to yank the door open, finally clock in for my first day on this job when someone pushed it open before my hand could even touch the metal curvature.

Everything unraveled in slow motion after that . . .

The door knocking into my hand and leaving a sharp sting behind, the shock creeping up on the patient’s face and his apology, and—the worst thing that could’ve possibly happened—the iced black coffee in my mug spilling. There was a loud bang when my mug hit the glass and metal door. Coffee splashed violently all over my white coat, and the jacket and white blouse I was wearing underneath. I yelped as the cold liquid dripped into my bra.

“Oh, shit! I didn’t see you there. Sorry about that!” shrieked the man, louder than a blowhorn.

Everyone in the pharmacy, the four patients waiting for their prescriptions and the staff in the back, turned to look at us. A blazing heat rose from my chest, straight to my cheeks, as I stood there in a puddle of melting ice and coffee.

“It’s alright. Please don’t worry about it,” I said, as flatly as I could. I blinked, dusted off a melting ice cube from my blouse. “It was my fault.”