95 of Moonlight Over Seattle

What had Nicole said…that she had an obligation to share her good fortune? At the time he’d filed it in his mental skepticism drawer. Not that he objected to the idea, but when other people had said something similar, he’d figured there was a better than even chance they were just putting on an act. Perhaps some of them were just pretending to be altruistic; perhaps others felt the same way about his character. Skepticism could give birth to skepticism.

It was a sobering thought.

He received a fair amount of mail about his column, and a percentage of the letters were from annoyed readers asking what gave him the right to comment on other people’s choices. He’d dismissed them, knowing if he started second-guessing his work he would crash and burn as an op-ed writer. Besides, he figured his job was to both entertain people and make them think.

Yet the authors of those angry letters didn’t see it that way. They called him a judgmental jackass, often using much stronger language. Now Jordan wondered if he’d bought too far into the concept that being controversial increased readership. It did, of course. If he said something outrageous about marriage or politics, body image, or even about a movie, it got attention. After all, however outraged some of those people might be, they were still reading his column.

But if he wanted people to think, maybe he shouldn’t make them so angry that they barricaded themselves inside their ideological positions without questioning why they held those beliefs in the first place.

It was something to consider.

* * *

ON TUESDAY EVENING Barton knocked on Chelsea’s door and gripped the package he held harder than necessary. The delivery person had asked him to sign for the parcel and Barton had instantly begun steaming about the implications. It was from Ron Swanson, postmarked after Chelsea had ordered the guy to leave her alone.

The door opened and he saw Chelsea still in her work clothes. “Hi, Barton.”

“I signed for this and told the delivery guy I’d bring it over,” he explained.

“Oh.” She looked at the return address and frowned. “My neighbor down south thought Ron was wonderful. Turns out she gave him all my contact info.”

“Give me the creep’s phone number and I’ll call him.” The words came out more forcefully than they should have. Chelsea bit her lip and Barton kicked himself. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he added quickly. “I just hate that he’s still bothering you.”

“Ron is my problem. I need to be the one who deals with him.”

“There’s nothing wrong with someone helping out.”

Her lips trembled then firmed. “No, Barton. This is something I have to handle. It isn’t your problem.”

“Except that you’re my neighbor and my friend. Surely it’s okay for me to lend a hand.”

“No.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because it isn’t the first time I’ve screwed up this way,” Chelsea hissed, “and I have to find a way to finish it, for my own self-respect.”

Barton stirred restlessly. To him it was natural to want to protect someone he cared about, so when she’d refused his help, it had felt as if she was rejecting him. Obviously it had nothing to do with that.

“Can we talk about it?” he asked finally.

Shrugging tiredly, she stood aside to let him into the apartment. When she sank onto the couch, he wanted to sit and hold her close. Instead he chose a nearby chair. She clearly wasn’t thrilled to discuss the matter, and he felt a moment’s uncertainty whether he should be pushing. Still, they had to talk if they were ever to get anywhere.

With the thought, a wry recognition went through Barton. Once again he was considering the possibilities of a relationship.

“I’d like to understand,” he said.

Chelsea drew a deep breath and let it out again. “I told you my childhood was rotten before my folks got divorced. What I didn’t say was that they abused each other. They argued constantly and sometimes their fights got violent. As if that wasn’t enough, they both cheated constantly and it seemed as if they couldn’t wait to boast about it during their battles.”

Nausea twisted Barton’s stomach.

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