Page 8 of The Plus One
Well, being back was going well.
Jude moved toward the steps, wanting to escape into the sanctuary of his room—Collin’s guest room—the space quiet and safe and terrifyingly lonely. But the muffled voices of Indira and Collin above, cut short by the sound of a door slamming and Collin’s heavy footsteps moving up the second set of stairs to the main bedroom on the third floor stopped him in his tracks. It was then that Jude realized the cherry on top of this fucked-up sundae.
Collin’s other guest bedroom was directly next to Jude’s.
Meaning approximately five inches of wall would be separating Indira and Jude for the foreseeable future.
Jude was, to put it lightly, so fucked.
CHAPTER 4
Indira
Indira decided that if there were ever an appropriate time to call an emergency session with her therapist, it would be right about now.
“I’m fucking sad. All the time,” she said, voice cracking as she blinked away tears. She didn’t want Dr. Koh to see any of them fall. “My gut is constantly twisted in knots and my heart feels like there’s a fist squeezing it to a pulp. The sadness is so heavy it sometimes feels hard to breathe.”
Dr. Koh nodded gently.
“And you know what I can’t stop thinking about?” Indira said, face scrunching up in disgust. “Why peanut butter?Why?I’m not here to kink-shame or yuck anyone’s yum, but I truly cannot think of a less sexy food than thick-ass peanut butter.”
“Well,” Dr. Koh said after Indira was silent for a minute. “That is quite a lot to think about.”
Indira shot Dr. Koh a look at that massive understatement.
“What are these feelings surrounding the situation with Chris bringing up in you?” Dr. Koh asked gently.
“That I’m not sure I’ll be able to enjoy PB and J sandwiches ever again.”
“Fair. But what about on a more emotional level?”
Indira blew out a breath. Fuck if she knew.
“Fuck if I know,” Indira answered honestly. “And I think that’s part of why I feel so shitty.”
Dr. Koh pursed her lips. “Tell me more. I’m not sure I follow.”
“I feel…” Indira grappled with adjectives and emotions, none of them fitting right. “I don’t know how I feel. Andthatmakes me feel uncomfortable.”
“How so?”
Indira’s knee started bouncing. “I’m a psychiatrist. I’m supposed to have all this emotional intelligence and well-developed coping skills and I… I can’t even figure out what I’m fucking feeling. How am I supposed to be of any use to my patients, or anyone for that matter, if I can’t help myself?”
Dr. Koh sat back, brow furrowed. “Why do you think your personal, emotional experiences will prevent you from being there for your patients as they undergo treatment?”
“I… I don’t know,” Indira said, throwing her head back against the couch as she stared up at the ceiling. She wished she could shout the words. “I just feel useless. I feel like I’m this broken mess that will fail others because I can’t even fix myself.”
“Are you emotionally projecting your current struggles onto your patients?” Dr. Koh asked.
Indira’s head jerked forward to look at Dr. Koh. “No. I… No.”
“Are you interfering with their sessions by discussing your own feelings or personal difficulties?”
“Of course not.”
“Are you abusing your patients? Are you manipulating them? Are you acting bored in your sessions and not engaging? Are you neglecting them?”
“No,” Indira said, her voice rising. She cared about her patients—their well-being, their path to wellness—so deeply, it was offensive to even imagine doing those things.
