Naomi waited until Reagan was asleep before venturing out of the bedroom. She wasn’t in the mood to talk or try to explain her emotions tonight. Opening the refrigerator, she rolled her eyes at the upheaval inside and removed everything to reorganize it again for the umpteenth time. She didn’t know how one person—Reagan—could be so haphazard about what she placed where.
Finally finding the cottage cheese on the bottom shelf, she couldn’t enjoy it now. She was having a hard time sleeping, but she’d never be able to sleep if the fridge wasn’t back in some kind of order. The milk leered at her as she reached for it, but came along, as if it was used to it by now. And that should have scared Naomi, at least a little.
She didn’t blame Reagan, not really. Reagan never had much structure in her life and had no way of knowing how much structure Naomi required. Reagan’s parents had moved since she was a child, finally settling in Florida when Reagan was a senior in high school. Her parents had gotten divorced shortly after, and Reagan stayed in Florida. Her dad now lived in California, where he considered home.
Naomi knew Reagan missed her dad. They’d been inseparable, and Naomi didn’t appreciate how Sharon treated her husband of thirty something years.
Finally arranging the condiments, containers and crusties back in the fridge, Naomi planned to have a talk with Reagan after a long and hopefully blissful sleep. This may be Reagan’s house, but all Naomi desired was cottage cheese to accompany the pineapple tidbits. Mint was Reagan’s vice, cottage cheese was Naomi’s, but she couldn’t enjoy it if she couldn’t find it.
Not that she need worry. She wouldn’t be here much longer. Real life called, and she couldn’t live in this frivolous nonsense for long without losing her sanity.
“What are you doing up?”
Reagan’s tepid voice jolted her, and the cottage cheese crashed to the floor, slopping white gunk across the tile.
Reagan crouched to help her clean, but Naomi’s nerves were taut, so she pushed her away. “I’ll handle this.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got to stop making that fridge a mess, Reagan.”
“You’ve got to stop obsessing over things.”
“You can’t possibly understand what I obsess over.”
“Don’t.” Reagan held up her hand in warning and stood, tossing the dishtowel in the sink. “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t understand. You sound like my mother, as if that’s her excuse for acting the way she does. Believe me, I understand a lot more than most people could possibly imagine.”
Naomi hadn’t mean to hurt her, and she hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but the grasp she had on her control in life was slowly slipping, and it scared her.
She had to get home. She couldn’t live this trivial lifestyle that Reagan was so wrought to live. Picking up and moving didn’t bother Reagan, probably because she’d done it since she was a child, but Naomi needed roots and those roots needed stable ground.
Naomi sat on the floor and forgot the cottage cheese. Propping her face in her hands, she let loose of the tears she’d held onto. God, she hated to cry. Once she started crying, she’d never be able to stop.
Naomi is a secondary character in “Burn on the Western Slope”. We’ll find out more about her in my next novel, so stay tuned!