Chapter Six

He'd always hated treadmills. Always. But it really was a good way to work off frustration. He'd lost again today, couldn't concentrate. Same sparring partner as last time, he should have been more prepared, better able to read the guy's moves.

Jim hadn't taken up karate until after he'd gone blind, but he was usually proud of the skill he'd picked up in such a short time. He was learning a lot—private instruction—and the instructor often threw in moves from other disciplines that he thought Jim could use or enjoy: tae kwon do, jujitsu, and hapkido. His balance was getting better—he'd had a terrible time when he first lost his sight, tripping over the smallest thing would send him sprawling. Even now he occasionally had problems with that, if he wasn't totally in tune with the environment and his movements. Karate was teaching him to focus better. He was also getting a lot better at hand-to-hand combat.

Which he might need, he chided himself. He was his only weapon now and needed to concentrate during the lessons.

Christie hadn't known Jim back in his fighting days, back when his hands were hard and calloused and his face usually sported some bruise or cut. She barely knew about that time in his life and how sport fighting had helped keep him sane enough that he didn't get into fights outside the ring. That was how he'd always worked off his frustrations, dropping by the gym and putting on a pair of gloves.

He'd felt that same freedom from frustration the day he and Karen had gone to interview the manager at the Amsterdam and he'd pummeled the speed bag for a minute. He hadn't been showing off, though he knew Karen was oddly impressed and intrigued. He'd really only wanted to know if he could still do it. He wouldn't be much up against another boxer in a ring, but going up against a bag was a piece of cake.

He'd inquired at the gym he usually went to, found out they had bags. The kid at the desk, Jim had heard him laugh, heard in his voice how he was humoring the blind guy, showing him where the punching bags were. Instead of getting mad, Jim made himself think back—if he wasn't the blind guy in question, wouldn't he have chuckled? He and Terry would have made jokes about it all day.

That was sometimes the only way to deal with people, to force himself to realize he was no better, then to make the jokes himself and cut them to the chase so he wouldn't be caught off-guard. "Hey, Terry," the old Dunbar would have said, "let's get front row tickets to fight night, see if this blind guy shows up." They would have snickered and made all sorts of crude jokes, then they probably would have bought tickets to the next big fight—any excuse to go. Christie wouldn't have understood. At first he used to tell her all the stupid reasons he and the guys had for going out—there was this guy at the gym, we wanna see if he's a real fighter, can't see his opponent, should be interesting—and Christie would have shaken her head. She might have even reprimanded him, said she was ashamed, they were grown-ups, couldn't they act like it? So Jim had stopped telling her why he was going out, just going out with the guys, that's all the more he'd say.

Now that the tables were turned, Jim wondered if Christie'd been right. He'd just needed to grow up.

He wondered if, now, he'd make jokes like that. Not about a blind guy boxing, but about anything else he'd have joked about with Terry. Where did he draw the line?

Before, he and Terry would have gone to the fight. The seed would have been planted—the is the fight to watch for—so they'd have watched for this guy to show up, making cracks all night: that fighter must not have seen that one coming; good thing he can't see the blood, what with all the blood in his eyes; you think they'll let his dog fight tag-team? The whole time he would have been thinking the blind fighter was some has-been, got hurt during a fight, knocked his lights out—permanently—and he just didn't know when to quit.

Jim found the parallel to himself shocking, but he wasn't a has-been, not yet. It hurt to realize what he'd have thought about any other guy in this situation—Terry included; he would have been just like Marty, probably worse.

He'd been using the bags a lot lately. It wasn't exactly the same as going up against an opponent who could beat him back, but it felt good. Slowly the pent-up frustrations he'd had for over a year were beginning to leak out and, like Galloway had said, he was beginning to feel like himself again.

But he thought as he stepped off the treadmill to head for the bags, he would never let himself go all the way back to that guy. Why couldn't Christie see that he had changed?

Jimmy'd been different for a long time. Christie couldn't quite put a finger on when it had started. They'd been married five years and for a while everything had been great. They'd been so in love. Or so they'd thought. She wondered now if it had been just a passing infatuation, like the high school quarterback and the head cheerleader. They'd fulfilled their time together, but now maybe it was time to move on.

She'd been thinking that for a couple years, wondering just what this marriage was built on.

Jim had been able to see for the first four years of their marriage. She considered that the normal part of their life. He'd been the bad boy and she had to admit she'd found that irresistible, even if she really didn't like it when he started fights. She couldn't curb that part of him. She wanted the bad boy image with the choir boy mind. She knew that now. Hindsight being 20/20.

Christie knew after a couple years Jim had begun to feel stifled. Or something. He really wasn't comfortable in her world, nor she in his. He didn't like to go to the upper crust parties with the stuffy people she wanted to make a good impression on. They'd look at him and sort of approve, but he had these rough edges. He'd never fit in.

She fit in better with his crowd. She could mingle and talk and his friends could appreciate her stories of all the people she'd gotten to meet through her job. She just normally didn't have time to spend—she had things to do. Her life was going somewhere.

Maybe being married was holding her back, even though it looked good on her resume; people respected a married woman more than a single girl.

Christie had known right away when Jim met someone else. She wasn't stupid. She knew her husband. She just didn't know what to do about it. Get a divorce? Forgive him?

She knew because he'd started comparing her. Her, the one he'd always said was incomparable. But suddenly he'd look at her oddly, closely, stare, like he was appraising her value and looking for imperfections. She'd seen it in his eyes, that there was someone he found better in so many ways.

But he never left her, tried to keep it a secret. She didn't know why, but guessed there was a part of him that was still in love with her, and another part that was held in check by the marriage vows. His parents had never divorced, though she knew they hadn't had a happy marriage. Jim had probably never even thought of divorcing her.

Christie didn't know what to do—they'd only fought about it once and she'd tried to leave. He talked her into staying, so sincere. He'd broken it off with… Anne. The girl even had a name. Anne, so clean-cut and wholesome sounding. Christie'd wanted to know just what was so great about Anne, so much better than her—

"I can't talk about that," Jim had said, perplexed, given her this look he had. He often couldn't talk about things with her, and even though she'd realized how wrong, how perverse, she'd pushed. "Christie, it's not your fault," he'd said instead of answering.

"Then why?" she'd yelled, tears on her cheeks.

"I don't know!" he'd yelled back. "Because it's wrong! I was wrong, it's wrong."

They'd dropped it—weeks passed, then a couple months. Christie had started to look at Jim differently. They weren't spending time together, he was throwing himself into work—she knew the fight wasn't over.

Then he'd been shot. Of all the things to hear to put perspective on all the shallow things that make up a life. Your husband's been shot. The shock was so great she'd burst into tears. Her thoughts hadn't been about how distant he'd been, or how he'd had an affair. They weren't even thoughts of how she'd been wondering if she even loved him anymore.

Jimmy, that had been her first thought. The Jimmy she'd fallen in love with, the one who was always there to protect her and take care of her. The one who could look into her soul.

The one she'd tried to change. Couldn't she just accept him? Wasn't that what a marriage was? It wasn't about finding a guy who was just good enough and trying to tame him. Jimmy had always been such a good guy—why'd she try to change him? She'd made him run.

Jimmy. If he died now…

But he hadn't. She'd felt like fate had given them a second chance. She'd be better. And he would be, too.

Until she saw him lying there, unconscious. For days she'd cried. Whatever relief she'd felt had disappeared and she felt scared, really scared, for the first time in her life.

The fear deepened when the doctors explained about the damage and the possibilities of injuries he could have sustained.

She wasn't getting her husband back. It wasn't a new lease on life. It was like a horror movie, never knowing what was going to crop up next. How would they survive if he never regained consciousness? If he did, would he be the same man? And would she be able to forgive him?

Yes!—Theoretically. Oh, she wanted to, wanted to beg God, promise she would forgive Jimmy. When it was a question of him living or dying, how could she even think of not forgiving him?

But she couldn't. She promised herself she'd just wait and see, make sure he was okay. Maybe when he re-evaluated his life—how could he not when he'd almost died—he'd find no place for her. She'd wait and see what he thought.

He couldn't see her. She was standing in the doorway and he was sitting up in bed staring at the hallway. The doctors had warned her before she went in, which was why she'd stopped at the door. She hadn't expected him to be awake, wasn't sure what she would say.

"Who's there?" he demanded, his eyes narrowing.

She hadn't been able to answer. The anger in his face terrified her. He looked like he'd kill the first person he got his hands on. He looked like he already had and it hadn't helped.

He looked vulnerable. Jimmy, vulnerable?

"It's you, Christie, isn't it?" he guessed. "I heard you walking down the hall."

She'd nodded, not realizing. She could hardly believe he couldn't see; he was staring right at her.

"Answer me!"

Her Jim almost never yelled. When he was angry he got quiet. He was always calm. Yelling meant fear. That scared her. Jimmy wasn't the type to be afraid.

He'd lashed out with the arm not hooked to an IV and he'd reached for something on the nightstand, spilling water, knocking over a vase of flowers. His hand had finally managed to wrap around a plastic cup and he lobbed it at the door.

She stood there another moment in fear as he stared at her. His eyes were wide, like he wasn't sure what he'd thrown or where it had landed. Like he was having second thoughts about who he'd thrown it at.

She looked at the dripping nightstand and realized every container within his reach was plastic and unbreakable.

If this was how he reacted to someone standing in the doorway, she couldn't imagine how bad it must have been when he first found out he couldn't see.

She'd slipped out of her high heels, picked them up, and walked away. They couldn't do anything for each other that day.

It had been difficult, sitting at home, clearing away knick-knacks and breakables while he was rehab. She'd been to the hospital several times to see him while they waited to make sure he was okay. Neither of them had ever mentioned her first visit when she hadn't said anything. She hated it because she knew that Jimmy was probably torn deep down between knowing she was there, and the doubts he must have felt about being sure someone was there when he couldn't see them. She knew he wouldn't bring it up and risk being wrong. He also wouldn't bring it up in case he was right. All the implications of his wife just standing there staring at him when he couldn't see.

He'd come back from rehab quieter, more reserved. He'd made a decision, he said, he was going to beat this thing and go back to work. Sure there were things he couldn't do anymore, but he had a new perspective on the world.

It amazed her, the way he'd come home and could walk around the apartment without bumping into anything. The way he could feed himself. Get dressed in the morning.

She'd gone downstairs and cried in the stairwell. She wasn't supposed to feel proud that he could feed himself. And relieved. Relieved that he wouldn't be helpless. She couldn't handle him being helpless.

But could he really go back to work? She'd nearly lost him to that job once, and now he had a handicap, even if he wouldn't admit it. If something were to happen to him again…

They'd stopped talking then. He wouldn't talk about rehab any more than he'd bring up his time in the Gulf. He was learning Braille, learning his way around New York, buying gadgets to make him self-sufficient. He never let on whether or not it was hard for him to get through the day—he just went ahead and did things. All she could do was stand back and watch him struggle—if he didn't do it himself, he'd never learn. Things had slowly gotten back to normal. He'd always been reluctant to share what he'd learned that day—ashamed maybe? To let her know he'd relearned to brush his teeth and tie a tie?

Hank had come into their lives right before he'd gone back to work. Christie'd always been scared of dogs and Hank was huge. Lying there on his pillow in the corner of their bedroom like he was master of their lives. Hank knew she was scared and she and the dog had never been able to come to terms with each other. He followed Jimmy around. If he found himself alone in a room with her, he'd leave.

And she was jealous. Hank knew how to help her husband. She'd always had to stand by while Jim struggled, but if Hank helped, he'd get a pat on the head and a thank you. If she tried to help, she'd get yelled at.

Slowly things had been getting back to normal. Jimmy was working and putting himself to use. He was busy, something he had needed so terribly. He was home more often, the apartment being a haven where everything was always in place. She was busy at work. She had a vague premonition that if she could forgive him straying that once, their relationship would be more normal than it had been in years. He really had changed—he would be around, he'd learn to love her again. He talked sometimes, listened, humored her. It was like he'd regained the Jim he'd been before Anne, when they first met.

Sometimes Christie could close her eyes and lie in his arms and be five years younger. He was as strong as always and she felt safe. She missed the carefree side of him. That's what he'd really lost, the ability to just kick back.

It had been six years since she'd met him. He'd been so outgoing, his own man, liked to go out with the guys for a beer after work, liked to be the center of attention around people he knew, but to blend into the woodwork around people he didn't. She'd always admired how he'd come in one night and tell her this horror of a case, and then a couple days later he'd be working it around in his head, letting all the pieces fall in place, and then he'd just know. It had been awe inspiring and she'd respected the way he could help people. Her own superhero.

It was the rough edges she couldn't handle. A bar fight here, a bout of temper there. Christie wondered how many women married a man they loved, felt safe with, admired, but couldn't understand.

It was as much her stubbornness as his that made it difficult to work through.

They just couldn't communicate. That hadn't changed.

And with Jimmy back at work, even though it was a new squad, they were the same old cases, all those dead people, and he was right back out there like he'd always been. It was almost the same Jim she'd first met… He just held her even further away to prove he could take care of her and of himself, while all she wanted was to get closer.

She was till awed, still in love. But she wanted something else. She'd changed, too. They were headed in different directions and she was afraid they were getting too far away.

Jim felt for the next button that would send the treadmill up to a run. He'd pummeled the bags until his knuckles bled, but he still had this knot in his stomach. Too much energy, too much anger. He was Jim Dunbar, and Jim Dunbar didn't make mistakes, didn't spend an hour on his knees cleaning up nail polish.

Back to the treadmill, a vain attempt to wear himself down to the point where he could reason with himself.

Galloway would have had a good explanation about why Jim had always tried to hold Christie and Terry at arm's length. Probably something to do with how he'd grown up, how his parents had been. He wasn't sure Galloway was much of a follower of Freud, but to Jim this sounded fairly plausible. His parents hadn't been much for deep conversation—how could Christie expect it of Jim, of the boy who'd grown up keeping everything safely inside?

Especially now. Before, he'd just been a man. He'd had problems, he'd had strengths, but he'd just been a normal man. He hadn't had anything to keep inside that any other man didn't have.

But now he felt he did. Looking back, there'd been times he could have let Christie in. Cases were just cases, safe to talk about, though he'd kept how they made him feel to himself. Now, it wasn't just about cases and how they made him feel. Now it was how they equalized him as a man, or how they showed him he wasn't the same. Now everything he did he was trying to prove he was the same as before, even as everything he did proved to him how his life had changed.

He couldn't share that with Christie.

Terry'd been a friend, but he'd made one mistake which Jim couldn't forgive him for.

Christie was his wife, and Jim had made one mistake she couldn't forgive him for.

It was all the same, it didn't matter who was right. Jim couldn't imagine Terry ever again being the old Terry he'd been partners with for three years.

That old Terry had been exuberant the day he'd brought his son home for them hospital. He'd been so proud, strutting around, showing off pictures, buying cigars and beers. That's the way Jim would always see the old Terry, the man who no longer existed. Jim couldn't imagine the hell Terry's wife must be having trying to reconcile the old Terry with the new one.

Terry had just gotten married when Jim first met him. The boss had called them both in at the 77. Terry was the rookie detective, just out of uniform. Jim had already been there almost seven years as a detective. The boss had pulled Jim aside, said, "Give him hell, he's a little wet behind the ears." Jim had happily obliged. When he'd joined, he hadn't had an easy time, had to make his way, prove his worth. If he hadn't, he'd have never learned. But always having to prove himself, watching his superiors and learning, he'd caught on quickly.

It took him six months before he eased up on Terry. Terry was a nice guy, honest, enthusiastic, a peacemaker, worshipped his wife. Terry would always be a family man. Jim always had thought of him as a big teddy bear. "How does a teddy bear hold his own on the scene of a homicide?" Jim had always asked. Terry'd get so serious at the crime scenes. Each one would hit him differently, it was like he took it as a personal offense when people were killed.

Jim had known Terry had trouble detaching himself from the crimes. He was great at interviews, so personable. But the crime itself would tear him apart, put a haunted look in his eye.

Three years later, Terry'd seen enough dead bodies, but he'd never seen anyone killed. Jim had known that would affect him more than other cops he'd worked with, just because that's who Terry was. But Jim had faith, watched Terry out there with him, helping other cops to safety. Jim saw the look on Terry's face when the one cop he'd been helping was shot—willed Terry to keep going. There'd been nothing Jim could have done for him then. Just had to trust Terry to take a moment, reconcile, stand up, do his job, and analyze the meaning of life later.

"Take the shot, Terry!"

The thought of stepping out there, killing someone himself… Terry hadn't had time yet to process watching someone die. He couldn't step up and commit the same act.

Jim had known that deep down for three years. He'd hoped Terry could handle it, but he'd been wrong.

He should have been harder on him. He should have made Terry handle it instead of appealing to his better nature. He shouldn't have trusted him to come through when the time came. Terry'd been a good man. Jim never should have let up, though. He'd been too soft.

Jim had always gotten things backwards. He'd always been too hard on his wife. He expected her to be able to handle this. To just stand back and let him be. Even though he'd known for six years that wasn't the way she worked; he needed to ease up on her.

Christie'd always been a little soft. Hell, she was soft as Charmin. She'd grown up privileged. Jim had met her at a gathering, she'd come with a friend of a friend to this little shindig of 100 or so people at the little crappy apartment Jim had shared with another guy on the squad. He'd been infatuated at first sight, but he knew she was out of his league. She planned to work her way up to editor of this fashion magazine she kept talking about. She had aspirations.

Immediately he'd shown her what a hard-ass he was, trying to impress her with how different they were, how manly he was. Talking cop stuff. Collaring perps, using the lingo. He'd kept constant eye contact and she hadn't looked away. He'd be talking to someone else, but he'd be staring into her eyes.

He grinned at her during one gruesome tale and said, "What, you can't handle it?" Devilishly charming, that's what he'd been going for. She bought it.

Anytime she'd grimace at one of his stories, he'd say the same thing.

Right after he'd gotten home from rehab, he'd broken something, a plate or a glass. Had shown he'd become clumsy, wasn't the same self-assured man as before, right when he'd been trying to prove to her he was back to normal.

He had felt her shrink back, but he'd brushed it off, told her coolly that he'd handle it, no problem. He'd cut himself cleaning up and she'd cried, fought him to let her help. He'd argued. Grabbed her hands to keep them away from the glass, deliberately stared over her head. If he couldn't prove he was the same, he'd show her what it was really like, see if she was strong enough to handle the truth.

He knew blood from the gash on his hand was dripping onto her hands, which had never been stained with someone else's blood. He'd been able to feel her gaze falling to their entwined hands, rising up to his face, searching his eyes. Again he said, more spitefully than playful, "What, you can't handle it?"

She'd already been crying, but then she started sobbing. He refused to let go of her hands, wouldn't hold her and comfort her. She'd sunk to the floor and he'd knelt in front of her. "Look at me," he said. "Tell me what you see."

"I don't know," she said, gasping for breath, trying to pull away.

"Tell me."

"I can't."

"Is it that bad?"

"Yes!"

At the time he'd thought it was the blindness she'd been talking about, but later, when he'd cooled down and forgiven himself for being clumsy, he realized she'd meant the cruelness, how he hadn't been the same person she'd fallen in love with. She couldn't have answered what she was seeing, knowing it wasn't the same man. Quietly he'd gone to her and asked if he was right, she confirmed. He'd apologized, promised never to do it again.

He'd told her it wasn't going to be the only time he was going to make a mess of things—in the apartment or in their relationship. He'd told her he could handle being blind and he'd take care of that, but she'd need to forgive him herself, he couldn't take care of that for her. She hadn't answered. He thought Anne was too fresh in her memory.

He had handled the blindness, mostly alone. Looking back on that afternoon, though, he wondered which of them had broken their promise—if she hadn't let him handle the blindness, or if he'd just been cruel again.

When a relationship boiled down to that, it didn't matter whether or not they loved each other.

The closer he got the apartment, the worse he felt. For yelling at Christie, for not letting her help, for being imperfect in the first place. How could he explain that to her? All he ever wanted for Christie was for her not to have to deal with the blindness. If it was up to him, she'd never see any of it.

"Jim?" Her voice was quiet.

Jim froze in the doorway. He'd debated not coming home at all, but the way they'd left things, he'd been half sure Christie wouldn't be there when he got home. He didn't think she'd leave, just thought she'd be back at work, burying herself. First her birthday, now this. She'd already been spending more time at work than home, and now, with him adding up all the fights… Jim recognized the symptoms—he'd worked longer and harder on cases before, when he'd wanted to avoid Christie for any reason. Yet, there she was, as soon as the door opened, still speaking to him.

"It's okay. I didn't booby trap the apartment," she said when he didn't move.

Jim stayed where he was. Christie didn't have a very good sense of humor. It didn't help.

"Are you coming in?" she asked, starting to sound worried.

He finally stepped in and shut the door, pressing himself against it.

"I'm sorry I yelled earlier," she said. "You couldn't help—"

He was suddenly disgusted with himself, making her worry, having her apologize first. She shouldn't—not when it was his fault. "I knew I knocked something over," he spat out. "I should have checked."

"How come I'm the one who never gets to apologize?" she asked.

Women—Christie especially—had ways to make themselves blameless. If you asked Christie about anything, she could always explain it away, turn it around on him. She could even make it sound plausible that guys weren't flirting with her. But this time, when it wasn't her fault, what was she doing?

Jim wasn't much for laying blame. He didn't like being dragged into arguments only to find at the end that of course it was his fault. Jim was good at apologizing. He was good at sitting there and taking it. Now she wanted to apologize?

"I can see you have an answer," Christie said lightly. "Would you care to share?"

Jim moved forward, dropped off his keys and sunglasses, turned to hang his coat on the coat rack. "I don't have an answer," he said. He didn't have an answer that would withstand any sort of scrutiny. Women just always had an explanation for anything. Jim thought the next time he got into deep thinking mode, he should come up with a rebuttal, save the whole male species. It wouldn't last long—a woman would take one look and find a loophole, making everything once again the fault of man. So why was she apologizing?

"Jim, come sit." She patted the couch.

"I don't want to talk."

"We can't just keep not talking," she said.

"Sure we can. We've been doing it for five years." Why'd she have to apologize first? And for him being blind, no less. He headed for the bedroom. He needed aspirin.

"About this afternoon—"

"Christie!" Jim spun around. "If it pertains to this—" he gestured at his eyes— "I don't want to talk about it. You want to yell at me for forgetting your birthday, go ahead, I deserve it. But this, why can't you just forget it for five minutes? Why does it always come back to me being blind? I don't want any help. I wish you could look at me and see the man I was when we first met. I know I screwed that up—" He cut himself off with a shake of the head. "It's always my fault. I made a mess, I cleaned it up, I wish you'd forgive me."

"If I do, then what?"

Galloway'd been right. No matter what started it, it would have to come down to Anne. Anne, his blindness, every mistake he'd ever made. They couldn't avoid them forever.

"If I forgive you—"

"Why is it so hard to do that?"

"Because I don't know who you are right now!"

Jim stalked across the bedroom. He'd been wanting to tell Christie for so long who he was—but at that moment, he wasn't sure either. The apartment still reeked of nail polish. He could feel the blindness tightening around him to the point he had to grope for the bed and sit down. Anne kept floating through his head, images, words, her smell, the feeling of comfort he'd had around her that he'd never had with Christie. If he'd still been with Anne, or, heaven forbid, actually left Christie for her, how would she have dealt with all this? "Has it ever occurred to you that I don't know either? That I'm trying to figure it out myself? All I know for sure—" He paused. "I never loved Anne."

"Great," Christie said sarcastically.

"You're so damn unapproachable!" he said and stood up. He crossed to the doorway, felt her move back, but he stood his ground. "I'm finally telling you how I feel, Christie. I didn't love her. She may have had a lot of things you don't, but she wasn't you." He paused, wondering if he'd said too much. But if he didn't, they'd never get it out in the open, never close that chapter on their lives. "Christie, I may never know why I did it, but I know why I stopped."

"You're going to stand there and tell me you loved me?" she asked aghast.

"What else am I supposed to say?" He waited, but she didn't say anything. "Exactly. Now you tell me—why don't you forgive me? You think I'm going to do it again?"

"I don't know."

"If you don't forgive me, we'll never find out, will we? I told you I'd never do it again, and I won't. I promised you that before I got shot. I know that screwed up a lot, we never had time to learn to trust each other again… But at least you know I was trying to change before, it didn't have anything to do with this." He gestured at his eyes again. "But how are we supposed to live together if you don't trust me?" He knew he was asking a lot of her. Christie'd never let him down. Terry had. He'd tried to forgive Terry, but it wasn't until Terry'd shot himself, amidst the pity he felt, that he'd finally understood and forgiven. "What you see is what you get, Christie, it doesn't get any better than this. I messed up, but I won't do it again.

"And today—" He knew he'd have to bring it up eventually. As much as he wanted to forget it. "I'm blind, Christie." He held his ground, waiting. As much as they'd danced around it, he'd never told her. Like he didn't have to admit it because she knew. But that was like saying he didn't have to admit he'd had an affair because she knew. "But I'm not asking you to forgive me for that." Jim walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

He stood inside, shaking. The fights he'd had with Christie recently, they'd never lasted long. And he really never had told her—the doctors had told her. She'd come to him in the hospital, and she'd already known. He didn't remember much about that time—it was all a blur, if he could even use that term. He hadn't been used to not seeing, and the doctors had kept him pretty drugged for the pain. Sometimes he couldn't remember what had actually happened, what he may have dreamed. He'd found, sitting in the hospital, a few times the drugs had made him hallucinate—he'd been sure he could see, the doctors had been wrong. Then they'd regulate his dosage, and things would get blurry again, then go away. He'd been blind a while before he was coherent enough to tell anyone, and by then, he hadn't needed to; they'd already known. By the time he'd actually used the word, he'd pretty much accepted the fact of the blindness. Except around Christie. He didn't ever want to be blind for her.

The anger was surging in him again. She'd made him admit that he couldn't see. To her. How was she ever supposed to look at him and accept that?

"Jim?" Christie knocked on the bathroom door.

Jim kept his back pressed against it to keep her from coming in. He felt like he had at the hospital, disoriented. Even his brain felt like he was back there, hadn't accepted it yet. Couldn't take it in stride that he wasn't always in control of his environment, couldn't yet accept that accidents happened.

She knocked louder. "Okay! I'll try!" she yelled. "I promise I'll try if you do."

He was awake at four. Thinking too much, as usual, he couldn't shut himself off. He got up, left her in bed, alone as usual.

Jim had always prided himself on being a man. Even before he'd reached the age where boys are normally considered men—his dad had always ordered him to "take it like a man," so he had.

And mostly he'd been a good man. He'd taken his share of lumps when his father was drinking, he'd taken care of his mother, he'd played high school football and ran with the jocks. He'd boxed. He'd joined the army, become a police officer, then a detective. He'd married a woman many men were envious of. Even having an affair had once upon a time been considered a manly pastime. He'd drink a brewski and watch the games with the guys.

Christie said he was still her man, but he found that almost condescending. She'd liked dating the ex-jock with the gun who could beat up perps on a regular basis and fight for justice for all. The man with the gun. It was all about the gun.

Which he didn't have anymore.

It was after giving up the gun that he'd decided to go back to Galloway for a while. Giving it up had brought up more issues than he'd ever imagined.

The cop without a gun. It made him feel like an invalid. Really brought home Marty's comment about being on modified assignment.

Even though Galloway said he was on his way to being the man he had been before, he couldn't quite see it. Dance lessons, a new precinct, a new partner, trying to play the sensitive husband and woo back his injured wife. She would be right to leave him, but then where would he be?

More modified assignment. Christie did more than he cared to admit. She'd always done the womanly things, like grocery shopping, but now she was in charge of paying the bills he could no longer read. He'd find ways to deal with it all if she wasn't there, but…

Once he'd stupidly charged a hotel room to his credit card. The room had been for him and Anne. It had been right after a tough case, he'd been drained and Anne helped him celebrate. They drank a little and she'd wanted to go back to his place. He'd talked her into a ritzy hotel nearby instead. He used to pay the bills, so Christie never saw the hotel on the credit card.

Even if he'd wanted to cheat on her now, it'd be more difficult—he couldn't rely on luck like that. He didn't want to cheat on her, but he felt like the blindness was holding him in check—not entirely a bad thing, but he would have liked to rely on his own morals instead.

He'd been thinking about Anne more often lately. Missing her conversations and her insights.

Christie was beautiful, but that meant nothing for him anymore. He'd loved her, but for a while he'd thought he loved Anne, too. A man with too much love and not enough commitment. Anne had always teased him about being fickle with his cases. They'd come and he'd dive in like it was the best thing ever, but once it was solved, he could move on like it had never existed.

Christie'd almost left him several times, but she'd always stayed. As much as she could hate him, there was something else. He just wished he knew how she really felt.

He wished he knew how he felt himself, too. He'd never been prone to indecision, but now he was always forced to work out his next move in his head before he made it, reason it out, weigh the consequences.

He couldn't hate Christie. He did need her. He'd lost his independence.

It struck him that maybe he was fighting against her to prove his independence, like a teenager fighting his parents. He was a grown-up, he didn't need anyone, and he was sabotaging himself.

As much as it scared him, as much as it would hurt, he needed to apologize to Christie for everything and take his lumps like a man. He would survive either way, but the manly thing to do would be to admit he was wrong.

Going to war seemed easier than the prospect of apologizing to his wife. He needed to work it out first, before he saw her again.

He headed to the precinct to make himself useful.