But then an eruption of noise sounded from the bathroom—a crash, a slam, a snarl—and the hot pink towel flew out the door as I approached. I found her with her hands braced on the edge of the long marble vanity, the hair dryer on the floor and a load of makeup spread out before her.
"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 me why you'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 the fuck?"
"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?"
"Anything else," she said. "I grew up in a world built on body dysmorphia. I didn't want to keep doing that. I didn't want to fix people who didn't need fixing. I didn't even think I wanted to go into surgery."
"Then…what changed?"
Another harsh laugh. "My father refused to pay for med school unless I committed to plastic surgery. I called that bluff one semester and had to ask my grandmother for help, but she'd already been warned off. It didn't occur to me back then that I could take out loans like everyone else and just tell him to fuck off." She brushed out a section of hair, started on another. "Eventually, I did. I went after a reconstructive surgery fellowship. The way he tells it, he got me into that fellowship. The truth is, he threatened to have me removed from the fellowship and reassigned to something more quote-unquote suitable. The dean of that program was a friend from his residency. My father swore it was only a matter of making a call and I swore I wouldn't speak to him ever again if he did that. The dean pulled me into his office, said he had a spot for me in a different program. That was the last time I took a penny from my family and we've barely spoken since then."
"But you came here," I said. "To a conference that doesn't interest you."
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. "I came to keep the peace. I know how fucked-up it sounds, but doing this one uncomfortable thing will buy me a couple years of distance."
"I'll go with you," I said.
She tossed a damp washcloth at my head. "There's no reason to do that and you'll be annoyed the minute you walk in because no one is talking about collapsed lungs. I just need the chance to freak out beforehand and get it out of my system. I'll be fine."
I aimed the washcloth at her hip. "I'd like you to be better than fine."
She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, glancing between me and her reflection for a moment. Then, "The conference isn't that bad. It's a lot of social interaction for me, but once I'm there and in the groove of smiling and nodding, it passes quickly. If you really want to do something, you could come to dinner with us tonight."
I watched as she brushed out the last section of her hair. She looked like an entirely different woman without the wild hair I'd always expected from her. This was a transformation, but not for any of the reasons I'd assumed. She was putting on her game face. Her hair was smooth and golden, the lines in her forehead were frozen, and there were enough products to make her face flawless. It worked exactly the way armor was intended. Except she didn't need any of this. Did she have no idea how strong she was on her own? Didn't she see it?