I Won't Be Your Opponent

October 2022 — Gemma

It starts with five words: “Dr. Song, meet your anesthesiologist.”

I’m standing in front of Dr. Wide’s desk, hands clasped together. “He’s new,” Dr. Wilde continues. “He just finished his fellowship at St Johns.”

“What’s his name?”

“Dr. Christian Nguyen.”

My head snaps up to Dr. Wilde, whose gaze is behind me, nodding to signal someone coming in. The glass door to her office slides open slowly.

I stare at Dr. Wilde, my smile frozen in place. Out of the 40 million Nguyens in the world, how many Christian Nguyens are there? But with a name I haven’t heard in ten years, how probable is that, really?

“Dr. Song?”

As slowly as possible, I turn around. Dr. Nguyen nods at me politely, wearing blue scrubs and a surgical cap. His dark hair is somewhat hidden under his cap, but his eyes—his eyes. “Hello, Dr. Song, I’m excited to work with—”

We notice at the same time. He stops midsentence, gaping at me. I take a physical step back, my jaw on the ground. There is a long silence.

Then we both scream.

Dr. Wilde jumps. “What the hell?”

“What the hell?” we echo, pointing at each other and looking at Dr. Wilde.

“You didn’t tell me it was Gemma Song—”

“You didn’t tell me he was the new—”

“Dr. Song, are you five years old?” Dr. Wilde interrupts, giving me the famous stare we coined Wilde the Witch. “And Dr. Nguyen, don’t make me regret hiring you. Whatever problems you two have, you need to sort it through outside of my office.”

I look back at Dr. Nguyen, who’s still shaking like a leaf. This has to be a dream. Christian Nguyen cannot be standing in Dr. Wilde’s office, wearing a Wilde Plastic Surgery Clinic lanyard with his name printed on it. Christian Nguyen cannot be standing here, ready to accept the position as the anesthesiologist for my upcoming surgery.

I close my eyes and say a prayer. Ten years ago, Gemma Song was the best at everything. Class rank, state testing, orchestra, even PE.

Until Christian Nguyen.

October 2009 — Gemma

Back then, I ran everywhere. I ran to school so I would have more time to study. I ran to class so I would get my favorite seat. I ran home to start my homework early. I was the fastest girl in my grade, for a reason.

But on that chilly autumn day, I ran to school for a different reason. It was the end of first quarter; class rank would be posted outside school.

Once I reached the courtyard, I stopped only to tighten my ponytail, the golden brown leaves crunching under my sneakers. It was a beautiful day that day, but I barely got to enjoy it.

That’s when I saw them. In front of the guidance office, three boys were making a commotion, cheering and hooting and hollering. Two annoying boys I barely knew, and him. Checking my watch, I ran down the pathway of the courtyard all the way to the entrance and over to the guidance office, my heart pumping dangerously.

“Way to go, Nguyen!” one of the boys was saying, clapping Christian on the back. “David owes me ten dollars now.”

“You seriously bet on this?” Christian asked.

“I’m pretty sure you broke history, dude,” his other friend said. “No one has ever beaten her.”

“Yo yo, who’s better than Gemma Song?” the first boy sang.

My fists balled at my sides. No one. The answer to that question was always no one.

I walked closer, straining to see the bulletin board outside Dr. Singh’s office. Class of 2012. 1. Christian Duong Nguyen. 2. Gemma Song.

I felt the oxygen leave my surroundings.

“Christian Nguyen! Christian Nguyen!” the boys sang in unison. “Win! Win! Win!”

Christian was laughing with his minions, then his eyes caught mine. He grinned. “You’re Gemma Song. The one everybody talks about.”

“Did you lose your spot?” his friend asked me, punching my shoulder lightly.

“Or your ego?” the other boy chimed in, and they fist bumped.

I stared coldly at Christian. “You’re a nuisance.”

“Dork,” he fired back.

“Idiot!”

“Sore loser.”

It was a slap in the face.

For years, no one was better than Gemma Song. Until Christian Nguyen.

October 2022 — Gemma

After apologizing profusely to Dr. Wilde, Christian and I quickly exit her office. Once we get to the corridor, I turn around to look at him. He looks so different, yet exactly the same.

“You—”

Christian shields his face, letting out a yelp. Scoffing, I smack his arm, and he straightens up. “You look pretty different,” I say. Pretty grown up. He still has the same dark hair, now gelled in a comma hairstyle. He lost all of his acne; his face is practically reflecting the light. To be honest, he looks good.

“You look tired,” he says bluntly.

I frown. “What?”

He points under his eyes. “You always had eye bags, but they’re even w…” He trails off, taking a look at my scowl.

“I’m a surgeon, Christian. Not all of us have time for naps.”

“Clearly.” He looks me over distastefully.

“Hey—” I raise my fist, and he crouches again, shielding his face. My arm freezes. “Why do you keep cowering like that?”

He looks from me to my raised fist. “You used to hit me all the time.”

I drop my arm, taken aback. “What?”

“You don’t remember?” he says seriously. “I was so scared of you back then.”

My brow furrows. Before I can ask, though, my phone alarm buzzes. “Hey, I have surgery scheduled in half an hour,” I tell him, pocketing my phone. “Are you observing?”

He nods, and I give him one last distasteful look before we head to the OR.

May 2010 — Christian

It was hot that day, as late spring was turning to early summer. That day, just like the end of every year, there was a mile run evaluation in PE. Gemma stood a few feet away, stretching like she was about to compete in the Olympics or something.

“Yo yo, Nguyen,” said Andrew, bumping me on the shoulder, “you know she’s the fastest girl in our grade, right?”

I scoffed. “Fastest girl.”

Andrew and Joshua exchanged a look, frowning. “Dude, she’s fast. She can run a mile in under seven minutes.”

My eyes widened, and I looked back at Gemma, her brown hair tied tightly in two french braids. “Under seven?”

Joshua patted my shoulder. “You have to beat her, Christian.”

“For us,” Andrew added.

I nodded. “I can beat her in physics. How is this any different?”

We lined up on the track. Coach told us to pace ourselves; it was an evaluation, not a race. At that moment, Gemma and I looked at each other.

Fire burned in her eyes. I took a step back, scared.

I didn’t even hear the whistle. Gemma took off at roughly the same speed as a freight train, the wind blowing in her braids.

The track felt like a trampoline. I played more sports than Gemma; surely I’d win. By the third lap, she started slowing down, and I caught up to her.

“You’re going to pass out!” I shouted.

She glared back at me, probably not understanding what I said. “I hate you!”

My legs felt like weak, undercooked noodles, but every time I glanced at Gemma, she seemed to be filled with energy. We were on the final lap; barely anyone was running anymore, too invested in our race. Even Coach looked nervous.

“RAHH!” Gemma shouted, pushing forward. How is that possible? I strained to catch up, looking at her with a genuinely terrified expression.

“What is wrong with you?”

We could see the finish line a few yards away. I shut my eyes, trying to ignore the white hot pain in my chest, using my arms to propel my motion forward. But when I opened my eyes—-

Gemma had flung herself forward, leaping over the finish line. Everyone erupted in screams.

“Gemma, are you okay?”

“Is she passing out?”

She was lying on the track, almost completely passed out. I raised a hand to my mouth, thinking for a brief moment that she had died.

Then she raised her head, looking at Coach. “What’s the time? Did I win?”

“Yo,” Joshua said, shaking his head, “she is crazy.”

Coach stared at his stopwatch, seeming not to believe his eyes. “Six fifty. Christian ran six fifty one.”

All of the girls started screaming then, chanting Gemma’s name and helping her stand up. Andrew and Joshua looked at me, too shocked to be upset.

I looked over at Gemma and noticed her legs wobbling. “Hey, are you okay?”

She nodded, her head dipping. I could see when her vision went black. She collapsed on the ground, looking up at me. “I won.”

She was crazy.

October 2022 — Gemma

After surgery, paperwork, and scheduling clients for the week, it’s nearly midnight. I sigh, taking off my labcoat. After dinner in the canteen, I’ll head up to my office for a nap.

I’m slipping back into my crocs when someone clears his throat behind me.

Christian has taken off his coat. “Going home, Dr. Song?”

I stare at him for a moment, briefly shocked, then cross my arms. “What if there’s an emergency, Dr. Nguyen? How long have you even been a doctor for?”

To my surprise, Christian laughs. “Emergencies as a plastic surgeon? It’s not like you’re OBGYN.”

“How about you go take some of your sleeping gas, anesthesiologist?”

He frowns. “I didn’t come here to argue.”

“Why did you come here?”

“Trust me, if I’d known you were here, I wouldn’t have,” he quips.

We sigh in unison. Christian leans against the wall, looking over at me. “Are you hungry?”

I hesitate. “A little.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Let’s go eat, your treat.”

“My—?”

“It’s my first day working here,” he explains. “You should treat the new doctor.”

I lean against the wall beside him, rubbing my forehead. Honestly, he’s just as annoying as he was all those years ago. But as I think it over, I realize that if Christian is going to be working here, I’m probably going to be seeing him every day. And it is probably a very rare occurrence to be working so closely with someone you knew in high school.

“Let’s go eat at the canteen,” I say finally.

Christian scoffs, looking offended. “A ten year reunion with a friend from high school, and your treat is the canteen?”

The words we weren’t friends are on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them. It’s not like I have to sleep at the hospital tonight. The only reason I don’t go home is because it feels wrong, like I’m not working hard enough.

I take a long breath, already regretting my next words. “Nowhere is open this late. Let’s go to my apartment.”

October 2022 — Christian

My first thought is: Why is Gemma’s apartment on the thirteenth floor of an apartment with no elevator?

My second thought is: Does she really live like this?

I stand at the fire escape in front of her door with my hands in my pockets, feeling awkward. When I asked her to eat with me, I wasn’t exactly asking for a home cooked meal, but she must have felt obligated to invite me over as a friend from ten years ago.

And then we step inside. Apart from there barely being any furniture, there’s even less apartment at all. It’s practically all one room, with a bed in the corner.

“Oh…”

Gemma kicks off her crocs, flipping on the lights. “I hope you’re not fussy about expiration dates.”

“Not at all,” I say, watching her with widened eyes. Whatever I remember about the Gemma Song from ten years ago, this is not her. This Gemma seems permanently tired, always yawning, never smiling. She still argues with me, but more lazily.

She pulls out two boxes of leftover Peking Wok. “Sorry, it’s two days old.”

I start to think the canteen would have been a better option, but something about her rubbing her tired eyes makes me feel a little bad. “Looks good to me.”

She smiles weakly in relief, pulling up a chair to the island table. “I only have one chair.”

“You sit, I’ll stand,” I say, opening up the takeout boxes. I clear my throat, carefully choosing my next words. “So…how are you?”

Gemma doesn’t look up, slurping her lo mein. “Still pissed that you work with me.”

I laugh, but that wasn’t what I meant, and I think she knows it.

“How are you?” she asks.

“Finally done with fellowship.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Neither did you.”

We look at each other. Gemma sighs, looking away. “I thought med school and residency would be the hardest years of my life, but it just gets worse.”

I look down and nod. “We chose this path.”

She nods back. “I’m glad to help others with my job. Those born with defects, asymmetry, and those that need reconstruction. I’m helping everyone all the time, but…” She gestures around the room.

“You’re not helping yourself,” I finish, nodding.

“More like hurting myself.”

“You’re a plastic surgeon that’s always at the hospital, as if you’re on call. You don’t even sleep here, or eat, or have friends over.”

Gemma looks up. “You’re here.”

There’s a long pause.

December 2017 — Gemma

I never had feelings for Christian.

But there was one night, during midterms in our senior year, when I remember thinking: oh shit.

“You didn’t have to walk me,” I mumbled to Christian, walking up to my front steps. We had studied for hours at the library, and it was coming up on 3 in the morning.

“You can thank me by inviting me in,” he said, shivering against the violent Chicago wind.

It was freezing outside, but it was Christian Nguyen—and my parents weren’t home. What if he decided to beat me up or something?

But after a few agonizing seconds, I relented. I was the one who always beat him up, anyway. I told him I would make some nightnight tea for us and “don’t make yourself at home.” In the mirror above the sink, I saw Christian smile to himself.

Thirty minutes later, we had finished our tea and Christian was packing up to go home. As I rinsed off our mugs in the sink, I saw him yawn and rub his eyes.

“I feel bad making you walk home so late,” I blurt out.

Christian turned around. “What?”

There was a pause. “It’s late, and you’re tired.” I bit my lip. “I kept us up so late studying. I’m just nervous about our AP calculus final.”

“Don’t be,” Christian said, his hands in his pockets.

“Why not?”

“You work hard,” he replied. “You used to scare me, but now…”

He trailed off. I tilted my head, somewhat confused.

“Never mind.” He put his shoes back on, heading for the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

Before shutting the door, he turned around one more time, holding up a fist. “We can do it, Gemma.”

We can do it, Gemma. We smiled at each other, and then he left.

I couldn’t explain why my heart was beating so fast. Why it felt so good to hear him say Gemma. He said it perfectly—“jeh-muh” and not “jeh-muh.”

I stopped myself, cursing under my breath. Shit. What was I thinking?

Of course, the next day we were back to normal. He was annoying; I was mean. I didn’t think about that night for years. But deep down, I knew I was just as good at ignoring my feelings as I was AP calculus.

October 2022 — Gemma

What am I thinking?

Christian is staring at me, but not in his usual she’s so crazy stare. It’s a new look entirely. And it’s making me uncomfortable.

“You probably need to go soon,” I say, closing my takeout box. “We can catch up another time.”

“Gemma,” Christian says, and I stop.

Stop.

“Yeah?”

He blinks. “I know we just met after ten years, but…”

My heart beats faster and faster, and I wish he would just spit it out.

“...I want to be your friend,” he says finally.

My stomach drops. What? Whatever I expected to happen tonight, it wasn’t this. “What are you talking about?” I scoff, acting annoyed as I toss the takeout in the trash. “I barely even know—”

Before I can finish, Christian grabs my wrist. “You know me.”

I look at him, my heart in my throat making it impossible to say anything.

“I think,” he says carefully, “you need someone. A friend. Someone who knows what it’s like to be so…”

“Self sabotaging?” I guess.

He smiles. “Hardworking.”

I don’t say anything. I’m afraid if I do, he’ll let go of my hand.

There, I said it.

“Did you know,” he says, “that it’s okay to take breaks sometimes?”

I look at Christian.

Christian looks at me.

I slowly smile.

He smiles back.

He doesn’t let go of my hand.