The Plus One (A Brush With Love, #3)

by Mazey Eddings

For those who hurt, those who’ve healed, and those who are somewhere in-between. You are worthy of love even on your hardest days. And for the younger me that still gets stuck in the bad place. You make it out.

But it would all be okay. If the emotional roller coaster of Indira’s childhood had taught her anything, it was that there wasn’t a problem out there that couldn’t be (at least temporarily) fixed by her mom’s red sauce.

Indira had unwittingly adopted a demon-possessed creature instead of an old, docile ball of fluff. But at the moment she had more important things to deal with.

“That would require you to be one, Chris. And from where I’m standing, you’re a cheating, cat-imprisoning man-child with the emotional intelligence of a rusty nail. So, no. I won’t be calming down.”

Grammy was no one’s idea of cute. She perpetually looked like a bolt of lightning had just jolted her wiry frame, sooty hair standing on end at wild angles and back permanently hunched like a dramatized Halloween cartoon. To top off her loveliness, she had a half-missing ear, a curled lip that always displayed one stained fang, and the spectacular ability to infuse havoc into any 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 was so damn sick of being left by the men in her life—first her father, then every guy she’d offered her heart to after—and just once, she wanted to be someone worth staying for. She tended to fall too fast. Too hard. Care way too much.

The person she’d loathed since childhood. Overlord of darkness and killer of fun. Her older brother’s best friend. Jude. “Oh great,” she said, blowing a stray curl off her forehead as she glared at him. “It’s you.”

But at the very bottom of said list where the most aggravating of people existed, written in red pen and underlined for good measure, was Indira fucking Papadakis.

“It’s been awhile.” “Not long enough,” she said,

“Indira brought all her stuff, so it must be bad,” Collin said, fanning the flames. Jeremy’s face twisted in outrage. “Collin, hold my squash. I need to kick some ass.”

Jude was, to put it lightly, so fucked.

“I … uh … I don’t wear hats,” Indira said, staring at the floor. “Rather prone to hat hair.”

Living with Indira, Collin, and Jeremy was, to put it plainly, a sensory assault. The siblings seemed to honor their Greek and Italian roots primarily by seeing who could talk louder, with Jeremy reveling in the noise. Jude wasn’t sure three people ever laughed so fucking often and so fucking noisily. Except for when Lizzie Blake, one of Indira’s best friends since high school, visited. That was a new level of sound.

Over the past few days, Jude had discovered one way to hang out with Collin without putting his eardrums at risk (for the most part): watching Grey’s Anatomy. “Pick me. Choose me. Love me,” Collin whispered in time with Meredith Grey on the TV, pressing his head against the back of the couch as he blinked past his tears.

He couldn’t handle anything anymore. And Jude fucking hated himself for it.

“Your best sauce to date,” Don said through a mouthful, smiling at his wife. “You say that every week,” Maria responded, giving him a playful swat.

“I’m going to kill you, Jude Bailey!” Indira said, chucking something that felt like a wet loofah at Jude’s head. It landed on the tile with a squelching noise.

There was one peaceful, blessed moment of silence that lasted long enough for Jude to delude himself into thinking the chaos was over.

—I don’t actually want you to choke on your toenails.” Jude’s lips quirked, the closest he could get to a smile. “I’ll give it my best effort not to.”

Jude’s friendship with Collin was the most effortless relationship in Jude’s life. They’d been best friends since kindergarten, close as brothers through high school. Roommates in college and med school.

Something about his bond with Collin always made him feel safe.

Collin sighed. “You don’t have to look so afraid; she’s outgrown her biting habit.”

Indira was wrong before: rock bottom wasn’t bawling hysterically on a train. Rock bottom was, in fact, getting wasted at a Cheesecake Factory

“Seeing as you two pull in a combined salary of seven figures, and were able to rent out this entire party room, wouldn’t it be better for you to just buy wedding favors instead of forcing us to arts-and-crafts our way through them? In a Cheesecake Factory, no less?” “Don’t you dare disrespect the Cheesecake Factory,” Lizzie cut in with an unnecessary amount of passion.

“I know this can’t be fun for you,” Lizzie whispered, tracing her knuckle across Evie’s soft cheek, “but that’s no reason to blaspheme the Cheesecake Factory.”

“So clever,” Jude deadpanned. “How long did it take you to think of those zingers?” “Only like, twelve hours,” Indira said, turning to face him.

“There are few places more pathetic to get drunk and have an internal emotional crisis than a Cheesecake Factory.”

“I’m fucked up,” she said at last, shrugging. “I panic when people leave. It feels as permanent as death and I react like that’s what happened. Every boyfriend in high school. And college. And med school … I’ve had so many people walk out of my life after I cling to them too hard and it’s embarrassing.

“If sitting with them were comfortable, we wouldn’t let them fester until they infected our hearts and our heads. But we avoid. We throw ourselves into work or vices or others because it’s easier to focus on those things than our own hurt.”

“What are you doing?” she shot back. “It’s close to three a.m. and you’re dressed like a highlighter,” she added, nodding at his neon-yellow shirt and the stripes on his sneakers.

She looked at him like she knew.

To just exist around her. So, naturally, he’d been trying to avoid her as much as possible.

“Thank goodness Collin and Jeremy are so low-key with their wedding events. Would hate for you to experience weeks of extremely loud and dramatic gatherings.” A startled laugh bubbled from Jude’s throat.

Someone to dance with at the wedding…” “I’ve seen your dancing, Jude, so I’m not sure why you’re framing that as an incentive.”

“I’m not going to put much stock in the opinion of a man who still wears Grey’s Anatomy merch from 2008.” Indira nodded at the old and stained T-shirt Collin was wearing, the picture of the show’s cast members worn and crumbly. “This is a rare, vintage item,” Collin said, gripping the fabric. “Guarantee you it will be worth a small fortune someday.” “It has holes in the armpits.”

He gave her a bland look. “Yes, please continue your relentless roasting. Makes me so thrilled to help you.” Indira giggled.

“I don’t mean to be rude—” “Anyone who starts a sentence like that automatically knows they’re about to be rude as fuck,” Indira cut in.

Indira huffed. “Okay, Nancy Drew, you caught me. I told Chris not to be there and I don’t want to move all my shit by myself so I’m using you for labor. You have the truth. Are you happy now?”

Having a car in a big city was a lot like owning cast-iron cookware—it seemed almost like a luxury at first, but ended up being a way bigger hassle than it was worth.

“You might be the worst driver I’ve ever seen!” Jude choked out, his face red and eyes watering. “I am not! I’m a great driver!” “By whose standards?” Jude asked, trying and failing to pull himself together. “You and Collin are the ones that taught me, smart ass. That’s a reflection on you.”

“She asked you not to be here,” Jude said, voice low. “The least you can do is respect her request. She shouldn’t have to keep asking.”

“Someone else shouldn’t have to step in for you to listen to her, or anyone else, for that matter,” Jude said, voice hushed but sharp as a knife’s edge. “Don’t let that happen again.”

Indira ran to the Bed Bath & Beyond two blocks away to buy some storage bins to transfer everything into when she got back to Collin’s. She had a thick stack of sweet, sweet 20-percent-off coupons that catapulted her into a near-euphoric state when she used them.

Back in the car, she maneuvered them out of the city with only three close calls and level-ten dramatics from Jude.

Indira cleared her throat. “I’ll have—” “Whiz-wit, mushrooms, tomatoes, mayo, ketchup?” Jude finished for her. Indira blinked at him in surprise. “You remember my order?”

Either her standards were exceptionally low, or Jude retaining her cheesesteak order for the better part of a decade was the most romantic thing to ever happen to her … Both things could be true.

Paying too? Was he trying to kill her and her silly, aching heart?

Lizzie: once again requesting further details on where the cheesesteak is from Lizzie: and what toppings were procured?

I’m going to write Jude a letter so we become friends. “That’s so fucking cute,” Jude whispered, tracing his finger over the indents in the paper.