Page 3 of The Plus One
“Don’t fucking call me,” she said to Chris, who had the audacity to stare at her like a startled owl. His companion still had her mouth hanging open.
Indira had her hand on the doorknob when the other woman cried out, “Wait!”
Indira stopped. She wasn’t sure if it was the weight of the items she carried or the hurt that was radiating out from the center of her chest, but she realized she was trembling. She turned to look over her shoulder at the stranger.
“It’s… We’re in love,” the woman whispered. By the look on her face, Indira could almost believe it.
“What’s your name?” Indira asked, swallowing past the knot of emotion in her throat.
“L-Lauren,” she replied, her big blue eyes shimmering. She was blond. Freckled. Beautiful.
“Well, Lauren,” Indira said with a pitying smile, “good fucking luck.”
CHAPTER 2
Indira
Indira made sure to slam the door behind her as she went, then flew down the stairs and out to the street. It took her a few minutes of wandering to remember what random-ass side street she’d parked on, but she eventually found her car.
A hysterical giggle bubbled up from her throat as she stared at her SUV.
Her tires were slashed. All of them. Every single one deflated and floppy… kind of like her ego.
She started laughing even harder.
Her entire body shook with cackling laughter.
Then something in her chest cracked.
And she was bawling.
Indira collapsed against her useless car, tears streaming down her cheeks and a pained howl tearing from her throat Grammy decided to harmonize.
Indira couldn’t pull herself together, so she leaned into the sadness, letting it pour out of her.
Eventually, with a final, rattling breath, she cried herself dry. Then considered her options. Lizzie, another of Indira’s friends, lived in an apartment less than a mile away, but she also had a gorgeous partnerand an eighteen-month-old tottering around and a total of zero doors in her studio apartment. Indira was a firsthand witness to the lack of self-control Lizzie and Rake had when it came to keeping their hands off each other in public; she couldn’t imagine what occurred behind (not) closed doors.
Indira’s other two closest friends, Harper and Thu, also lived reasonably close, having recently moved back to the area from New York and California, respectively. But they, too, lived with their significant others in one-bedroom apartments. While a night or two on their couches wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, Indira knew anything longer than that would leave her with a sore neck and back probably for, like, ever. Getting older sucked.
That left her older brother, Collin, and his fiancé, Jeremy.
The pair was intimidatingly put together, their cushy doctor salaries granting them a spacious three-bedroom home in Manayunk, one of Philadelphia’s more residential neighborhoods a few miles northwest of Center City.
Indira and Collin were close, having leaned on each other since they were little ones trapped in the crosshairs of a messy divorce, and she knew he wouldn’t mind her crashing at his place. In fact, despite the longer commute she’d have to endure for work, she felt a tiny bubble of excitement at the opportunity to spend time with her brother while she figured out what to do next.
Besides, Collin and Jeremy were getting married in a little over a month and had so many pre-wedding events planned—most of which seemed more like exploitation of the wedding party for free labor to make decorations and goody bags than actual celebrations—she was already planning on being there quite a bit.
Maybe watching horror movies and ordering pizza like she and Collin had when they were teenagers would help her through this outrageously awful situation. This wasn’t likely, but if listening to Taylor Swift since she was a die-hard teenage superfan had taught her anything, it was that healing from a breakup was a slow, treacherous process and any attempt at feeling better was worth it.
Indira shot Collin and Jeremy a quick message in their group chat, telling them that something had happened with Chris and she’d be crashing at their place for a bit, knowing they were probably in surgery at the hospital and wouldn’t see it for a few hours.
Straightening her spine (as much as she could under the tremendous weight of all her shit and pseudo-feral cat), Indira left her vandalized car to be dealt with on a day that sucked ass just a little less and walked to City Hall to catch a train out to Collin’s.
Collin and Jeremy, like Indira, were doctors. Collin and Jeremy, unlike Indira, were anesthesiologists, earning them a level of respect in the medical community (and a giant salary) that Indira would never scratch as a psychiatrist.
Physicians and surgeons and psychiatrists alike all had the goal of healing, but because Indira wielded a complex system of therapies and medications instead of a scalpel, her work would never be as valued. Psychiatry lacked the instant gratification of surgery, and just as mental illnesses were ridiculously stigmatized in society, those who treated them were held in lesser regard.
Not that Indira gave a shit. To her, the brain was the most vital human component, and she was humbled to have the privilege of helping her patients cope and heal theirs… even if she struggled with her own sometimes.
