Page 1 of The Wrong Sister

1

mina

Taylor Swift is being her badass self, singing about being the man and I’m putting on my armor in my small, well-lit bathroom. There’s a mug of steaming coffee at my elbow, hyping me up as much as the music. I’ve been told more times than I can count that my personality is intimidating and I’m not above playing that up, using it to my advantage. At barely 5 feet tall, I have to use everything I’ve got to be taken seriously. I have a morning full of mediations and need to show up tough and ready to fight for these kids. Soft feelings and troublesome emotions can stay home, where they belong. If I could banish them to another dimension, I would. Fucking complications I can do without. These kids don’t need tears and hand-wringing, they need someone to stand in front of them, advocating for their well-being, and battling for their safety. I meet my own eyes in the mirror, staring myself down and repeating my daily mantra.

I am powerful.

I am a force to be reckoned with.

I’ve got this.

I’ve only been back on island for half a year and it still feels a little surreal being home. The adjustment hasn’t been as easy as I was anticipating. I knew to be prepared for the high cost of living—that part is familiar. The slower pace, the perpetual sunshine, and being close to family again have taken some getting used to after being away for years. I have not, however, wasted a single moment thinking abouthim.

Much.

Lately.

Griffin is solidly in my past, where he belongs. If emotions don’t have a place in my day-to-day life, then pining can’t even be considered. It’s not a good look. Badass boss bitches don’t pine. Just ask Lizzo!

Okay, maybe I haven’t even been back home, convincing my parents to meet me in town, so I don’t risk running into his parents. But that’s only because they live across the street and I know they’d tell him I’m back. I don’t want to deal with that. Because I’m over him. Completely. It’s merely a time issue. I don’t have thetimeto have unnecessary conversations with old crushes. That’s all. Right now I’m Career Mina. That’s what I’m focusing on. That’s what’s important to me. Hence the need to dress to project who I am.

Stepping into my steep black heels, I smooth down a flyaway strand of hair and take one last look at myself from several angles. Everything is in its place. Nothing about today’s look says soft. Career Mina is commanding.

I am powerful.

I am a force to be reckoned with.

I’ve got this.

It doesn’t matter to me how casual some civil servants in Honolulu can be, I spent too many formative fashion years in New York City to bealoha professional. I won’t be changing myself to fit in. The wings on my black eyeliner are as sharp as my stilettos. My outfit is equal parts professional and authoritative. I give my deep purple lipstick a quick spot check before nodding at my reflection. Badass Boss Bitch engaged.

My empty mug gets a quick wash and I pour the remaining dark roast from my french press into a travel mug. Coffee to go and my bag in hand, I march out my front door to conquer my day.

2

griffin

It’s hard not to sing along with Liam Frost, but that would be a mistake with a straight razor in my hand. I settle for humming to myself, the sound of the sharp metal sliding against my skin my accompaniment. Nothing makes me feel more ready to tackle my day than a close shave. I finish with a washcloth heated through by running it under the hot tap, turning my face from side to side to make sure I don’t have any lingering spots of shaving cream. I allow myself one brief moment of satisfaction for a job well done, then progress to the next item on the schedule.

My mornings run like clockwork. I’ve had years to perfect my routine, shuffling things around until I determined the necessary inclusions, the ideal order of events, and the perfect amount of time for each task to achieve maximum efficiency. Not a moment is wasted. No unnecessary energy is expended. And I leave my apartment fully prepared for my day. There is confidence in proper preparation.

This morning is no different. I’ve checked off my morning run, making, eating, and cleaning up breakfast. The shower and shave are complete. Monday clothing is hanging in its spot, pressed and ready, taking no time to add ‘getting dressed’ to the boxes checked list. This is O‘ahu. Aloha shirts, in all forms, are the norm here, including in most businesses in Honolulu. That doesn’t matter, though, I can’t do it. It makes me feel like I’m pretending to be an adult with a real job. I spent too many years on the mainland, between college and law school, to feel comfortable going into an official hearing in a short sleeve shirt with a print all over it. To me, that does not project the right image. At least not the image I’ve worked so hard to present.

Five minutes for teeth and hair. Today doesn’t require additional time for preparing my lunch as grocery shopping isn’t scheduled until tonight. Mondays I grab something and eat at my desk to offset the lack of food in my fridge. It’s an indulgence, I know. Lastly, I take the time to make my coffee—the only extravagance in my schedule—fill a travel mug with the fragrant dark roast, and double-check the contents of my briefcase. Obviously, everything is where it should be, I ensured that last night, but it never hurts to be thorough.

The musical jangle of keys follows me out my door, ringing out in time with my steps as I make my way out to my car. Today has me out of the office more than once. It would be best to utilize my short drive to organize my thoughts, map out my day. I’m not concerned, though. It’s Monday morning and everything has gone exactly according to plan. I’ve got this.

3

griffin

If I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late for my last appointment of the morning. I can feel a vein ticking just under my eye, like a physical manifestation of my irritation. I was supposed to have time to go over my notes, at my desk, in the air conditioning. Now everything in my day is going to have to be adjusted accordingly and that’s going to force me to leave work later, getting to the grocery store at the least optimal time. Just thinking about being forced to walk at a snails pace through the aisles, weaving between all the old aunties and uncles talking story and clogging up the walkways, makes the twitching under my eye increase. I have to relax my jaw and make myself stop grinding my teeth. Mediation ran long and I’m forced to give myself the once over as I walk. I make sure my striped, short-sleeve button-down is tucked neatly and my belt is centered on my grey slacks. I smooth a hand over my hair and push the door open.

The family hasn’t arrived yet, but it looks like the caseworker is already here and reviewing notes. Wedefinitelyhave not worked together before. She has her back to me and I stop in the doorway, giving myself a chance to calm my immediate, physical reaction to her. Huh. I’m not usually a lust-at-first-sight kind of a guy. She’s wearing a tight, high-waisted narrow skirt that hugs her curves and hits below her knee. She’s tiny but her heels highlight defined legs. Her dark, straight hair is in a blunt line that hits above her shoulders and it swings forward as she leans over her notes, but all I can look at is that perfect, round ass. That is the kind of ass you want to sink your teeth into. My distraction causes me to drop the door and it slams shut behind me. She turns at the sound and that’s when the real shock hits.

“Griff?”

The face is familiar and completely unfamiliar at the same time. I’m 100% positive she didn’t look like this the last time I saw her. God, how long has it even been? I distinctly remember a constantly messy ponytail and sullen expression. Her eyes are wide with surprise, dark brows raised. She has a couple of nose rings. That’s new. And hot. Her full lips are painted a dark purple. When did she get so gorgeous? I swear she used to be all knobby knees and bad attitude, a tiny foul-mouthed ball of fury and energy.

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