Page 90 of Strictly Against Policy

Jonathan’s lips curved softly. “She is. But I can’t help but feel like she’s kicking me out.” He laughed.

I smiled with him. “You’re lucky though,” I said. “It’s hard having more traditional parents. My mom threw a fit when I told her I wanted to move out; that caused me to stay with my parents for another year until it just became unbearable. When I finally moved out, my dad was just worried about my safety, which is reasonable. My mom, on the other hand, didn’t speak to me for a month. Now I try not to talk to her at all when she calls . . .”

He froze as the tofu soup in front of us continued to roil. His body hesitated, as did his mouth, curious but afraid to ask me.

“I’m not that close to my family if it wasn’t obvious from what I’d said about my siblings already,” I said, almost whispering so low I wasn’t sure he could hear me over the noise around us.

We were sitting in a booth, which helped drown out the chatter. However, it was dinnertime, with plenty of families with small children either yelling over one another, or parents trying to flag down a server for more side dishes.

I continued explaining in a low whisper, “I’m also not a good Hmong daughter, or sister. I’m a bitch. I’ve abandoned them by living on my own, never answering their calls, and drawing hard boundaries between them and myself. My only saving grace is that I still pay for my parents’ rent, utilities, and internet despite not living at home anymore. That’s pretty much it. When you told me I was perfect a few weeks ago, I’m not. Jonathan, I’m just a girl with a lot of baggage from home.”

He frowned. “There’s nothing wrong with that. Based on what you told me some time ago in the moving truck, I know your home life hasn’t been easy.”

“Yeah. It’s . . . hard. Like I’ve mentioned before, my family isn’t the easiest. Growing up as Hmong kids, we’re all taught the importance of family. It’s rooted in us from a young age that our family is supposed to be the most significant people of our lives. Because in family, there’s love and support,” I said. “Yet, all I am to my family is a bank account. All they ever want from me is money and more money. They were going to use me until the day I got married.”

My cheeks flared hotly at the mention of anything more than what we were now. “If not, then they’ll use my money until they’re no longer here. That’s what my mom and sister had said to other people, at least, according to one of my cousins. My family doesn’t respect me. Not my older sister. Not my older brother. Especially not my parents—specifically my mom.”

“From what you’ve told me about what you’ve done for your brother—helping him with his legal fees and financially supporting him—you’re a good sister. If you’re still paying for your parents’ bills, you’re a good daughter,” Jonathan said gently.

He leaned back in his seat and sighed. “You’re not the bad one just because you’re not living with them, not answering their calls to protect your peace, or not letting them take advantage of you. You’re good, Lina. You’ve done all that you can. That’s why you have those boundaries.”

My bottom lip trembled despite the mask of indifference I wore. Tears burned and hazed over my vision as I let out a small cough to hold all the emotions I felt intact under my thinning armor.

I nodded, neck rigid. His fingers intertwined with mine. “Yes. That’s true,” I mumbled.

“You’re so strong, Lina.” He tenderly squeezed my palm. “But when it gets too hard and you need someone to rely on, you have me. I’ll always be here for you. When we’re married, your family will have to deal with me⁠—”

His mouth fell open, and my face burned hot. The grip he had around my hand tightened, his cheeks and ears burning blood red. He cleared his throat before continuing.

“When we’re married, your family will have to deal with me,” he said, grinning. “They’ll have to go through me before they can touch you, and they don’t want that.”

“They don’t?” I arched a brow at him.

I had never really seen Jonathan as intimidating before. Even when he snarled and bit back with snarky remarks, he was never threatening. He may have scared Neng that night in the pharmacy parking lot. However, Jonathan Lo wasn’t someone who was fearsome or formidable.

I glanced at Jonathan’s hands. Thick veins protruded from underneath his skin, twisting in various directions to the strong forearms hidden underneath the long sleeves of his crisp baby blue button-up. From memory alone, I traced the curve of his defined deltoid muscles and across the width of his wide chest. My cheeks warmed with a sharp inhale of breath.

“I can be scary,” Jonathan insisted, nodding, finally taking a sip of his tofu soup.

I scoffed. “But you’re not actually scary. It’s all for show.”

He laughed, shrugging. “You know who’s really scary though?”

I sipped my bright red tofu soup, which was spicy, just how I liked it. “Who?”

“The Hughes twins. They’re scary when they’re angry.” Fear flashed across his eyes as if he were recalling an incident from all his years of knowing them.

“What?” I laughed. “They seem so sweet though.”

“No. The sweetest people are the scariest when they’re angry. You shouldn’t let their soft demeanor fool you,” said Jonathan, shaking his head. “It’s the ones with the icy demeanor that turn out to be the sweetest beings. Like you.”

I stilled, a spoonful of rice halfway to my hanging mouth. The only person who had ever claimed I was a ‘sweet person’ had been Mary, who’d also known me for more than half of our lives together.

“I’m not sweet,” I refuted softly. “I’m just me—whatever in the world I am.”

He looked up at me, grinning with bright eyes. “Nah, you’re a soft and sweet person under your hard and icy exterior.”

“I’m not,” I countered.