"What's happening in here? Are we having a tiny tornado moment? Please don't break the windows. I don't want to get thrown out of here today."
"Don't be an asshole to me right now. I can't do that with you this morning."
She shoved her shoulders back, held a hand close to the hair straightener to check the temperature. I knew that because my sister had the same one. Vivi also had a series of small burns on her forehead from it. The majority of our video call conversations involved that straightener in some capacity. I did not trust that straightener.
"Then we're throwing towels and small appliances just because it's fun? I'm cool with that, by the way. Just loop me in. I can throw towels too. Watch." I yanked a bath towel from the shelf, tossed it over my shoulder. "Did you see that?"
"Now you're just being a dickhead."
"See, I don't think that's accurate," I argued. "I think dickhead is a little too strong for the situation, no? Dickhead implies some degree of malice. I just want to throw shit with you. I don't want to be left out. No malice there."
"Is this what a nervous breakdown feels like? I've always wondered."
I paced toward her, set my hands on her waist, met her eyes in the mirror. "You are not having a nervous breakdown. Tell me what's happening."
"I am freaking out. Okay? That's what's happening." She edged me away so she could continue with her hair. "A nervous breakdown for breakfast, a plastics conference for lunch, and a fresh new disaster for dinner. Perfect. Best day ever."
"Can you tell mewhyyou're freaking out? Because I don't get it."
She rolled her free hand, saying, "My father's going to be at this conference."
"And…you don't wish to see him?"
"Actually, no, but that's not the problem," she said with a bitter laugh. "Everyone else wants to see him and they are going to swarm and trample me in the process."
"Sara. What thefuck?"
"Yeah, it's always a nightmare."
"Okay, so, I'm going with you," I said, stepping into yesterday's shorts.
"No, you're not. That's not necessary. I can deal with it. I just hate it. You know I hate being around a lot of random people, and when you add the fact they're using me for access to my father, it's even more unpleasant."
"Hold up. What are we talking about? I'm gonna need a lot more information. Explain it to me like I'm a child. Simple terms."
She set the straightener down and blinked at me. "You don't know."
"No, honey, I don't. What's going on?"
"My father, he's Ross Shapiro. He owns University Image Clinic. The plastic surgery center with forty-eight outpatient locations up and down California. My brother just opened a new location in Scottsdale last summer. My mother's busy working on Maui. That's the official reason she's been there for the past year and a half. The unofficial reason is probably twenty-five and a fitness influencer who hopes she's going to invest in his personal training business. She probably will, just as my father will keep all his twenty-two-year-old side pieces with more than enough cash in their pockets."
"Holy shit." I pressed a hand to my mouth because yeah, I'd heard of the plastic surgery mogul, but I'd never connected that dot to Sara. All the times I'd heard loose references to her father, I assumed it was something in the legacy admissions and family money veins. Never had I made the jump from Sara, the surgeon in the first floor apartment, to the man who dominated West Coast cosmetic surgery. And, well, never in a million years would I have guessed the rest."Holy shit."
"That's a fair assessment." She went back to running her hair through the straightener. "I assumed you knew. Everyone knows. It's the thing that walks into a room ahead of me."
"I didn't. I don't really pay attention to the things people say."
"Then you know what they say," she said.
"Not really," I admitted. "The only people I really talk to are Acevedo, Emmerling, and Hartshorn. Acevedo was fucking thrilled when we snagged you from New York."
"Snagged me," she repeated. "That's funny. I left New York because my dad's college roommate was appointed Chief of Surgery. His first act of business was telling me that my father wanted me to move back to California and work with him within the year, and he wanted to help my father with that in any way he could."
"What a dick." I leaned against the doorframe. "You never planned on going into the family business, I take it."
She laughed, but there was no humor to it. "Plastics wasn't my first choice."
"What was?"
