She was the one who was used to sharing a life, a sink, a bed with someone. She was the one coming out of a relationship.
Great. Now I was tired and annoyed.
We stood shoulder-to-shoulder, brushing our teeth. For some reason, the companionable routine reminded me of my childhood. Every evening when we were kids, Nash and I hung out on our parents’ bed, waiting for them to finish brushing their teeth so they could read us the next chapter in whatever book we were in the middle of.
I shook off the memory and glanced at Naomi. She had a faraway look in her eyes. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Everyone’s talking about us,” she said, rinsing her toothbrush.
“Who’s everyone?”
“The entire town. Everyone is saying we’re dating.”
“I doubt that. Most of them are just saying we’re fucking.”
She flung a hand towel at me that I caught one-handed.
“Fine. My parents and Waylay’s caseworker think we’re in a relationship, and the rest of town thinks we’re just having sex.”
“So?”
She looked exasperated. “So? It makes me look like a…well, like my sister. I’ve only known you three weeks. Don’t you care what people think about you? What they say about you?”
“Why would I do that? They can whisper all they want behind my back. As long as none of them are dumb enough to say it to my face, I don’t give a shit what they say.”
Naomi shook her head. “I wish I could be more like you.”
“What? A selfish asshole?”
“No. Whatever the opposite of a people-pleaser is.”
“A people-displeaser?” I supplied.
“You have no idea how exhausting it is worrying about everyone else all the time, feeling responsible for them, wanting them to be happy and like you.”
She was right. I had no idea what it was like. “Then stop caring.”
“Of course you would say that,” she said, sounding disgruntled. She took the hand towel, wiped down her toothbrush, and then the counter. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It is that easy,” I argued. “Don’t like something? Stop doing it.”
“The life philosophy of Knox Morgan, ladies and gentlemen,” she said with an eye-roll.
“Bed,” I ordered. “It’s too late for philosophy.”
She glanced down at her outfit. Her feet were bare, but she was still wearing that denim skirt and shirt from her shift.
“I don’t have any pajamas.”
“I take it that means you don’t sleep naked?” Just like making the bed, wearing pajamas was a waste in my opinion.
She stared at me.
“Of course you don’t sleep naked.”
“There could be a fire in the middle of the night,” she insisted, crossing her arms.
“I don’t have any turn-out gear for you to sleep in.”