7: MEADOW

Raven-colored hair, that's lost its luster, hangs limply around my shoulders, and my tiny, one-hundred-pound frame has lost ten pounds that I couldn't afford to sacrifice. A wave of nausea rushes over me, forcing me from the edge of the tub to run to the toilet.

Gripping the edge of the cold bowl, my body bows as everything within me clenches. I spew forth the last remnants of my lunch, shuddering and crumpling to the floor.

I take a few deep breaths and push myself up from the floor as the ache in my hip intensifies. Sniffling, I walk to the sink, grab my toothbrush, and squeeze toothpaste onto it.

I hear a truck outside, and it sounds as if it's idling in our driveway. Every time someone comes to deliver a package, fear fills my heart. Every time someone comes to service our home, I've canceled at the last minute, wondering if it might be my attacker.

I'm terrified of menial things like getting the HVAC system serviced or calling a plumber or any of the repairmen who might normally visit our home. Thankfully, we haven't needed any of those services except for the plumber, but I made sure that they came on a Sunday when I knew Onyx would be home.

A part of me knows that I'm being illogical by assuming that the man knows where I live. Yet, another part of me wonders how long he was watching me and my studio. What if he's followed me home before?

He knows my husband, my father-in-law, and his brother. Not to mention, he promised that he would be back.

But I know that I can't continue living this way. It's been a month since the attack happened, and I still haven't let go of the fear.

I take it one day at a time, telling myself that all is well. If he hasn't returned by now, he won't return. Determination to survive and the overwhelming tide of anxiety wars inside of me, filling me with hope that one day I can let it all go.

Hope that he'll be caught someday soon bubbles up and resides side by side with the worry.

So, as I hear the door of an idling vehicle closing, I refuse to acknowledge the fear that creeps up inside of me.

I force my mind to turn to positive thoughts as I cleanse my mouth, but that only lasts so long before anxiety rises again. I sit on the edge of the toilet.

The angst welling up inside of me is more than I can handle. I press a hand to my mouth, stifling the sobs that want to choke me.

"Meadow, you in there, babe?" Onyx calls out.

My eyes fly to the door. Standing abruptly, I feel a wave of dizziness and nausea wash over me. Holding onto the pedestal sink, I steady my balance.

"Meadow?"

"Mead—what's going on?"

"Nothing," I lie.

"Is everything okay?" he asks, raking his hand through his dark curls.

"Yes. I was using the bathroom."

I haven't told my husband about the panic attacks that I've started having. The last thing that he needs to know is that I'm losing it on top of everything else. He already blames himself for not ensuring that he upgraded my security system at the studio and that he was out of town and not here to protect me.

He's been the one to wake me up every time I have a nightmare, and he holds me close. I see the toll that it's taking on him. Onyx is constantly watching me and calling me throughout the day to check on me when he goes into the office. He's stressed and doesn't get much sleep through the night because he's worrying about me.

"What's happening with us, Meadow?"

"Nothing, Onyx. Please, just..." I mutter.

"Please, just what?" he asks, obsidian eyes glowering at me.

"Give me time and space."

His gaze rakes slowly over my face with a scowl deepening his angular features. "I can't do that, baby. It's bad enough that I was out of town when you were attacked and unable to help you. The fact that you didn't tell me right away because you didn't want to disturb me still angers me.

"I have to trust that if you're in trouble, you'll reach out to me. Right now, I can't trust that because when you needed me most, you didn't call on me. So, you know that I can't leave you alone. I promised to be here with you for better or for worse. And if this is your worse, then I'm here."

On the one hand, I want him close to keep me safe and ease my fears, but on the other hand, I sometimes feel like Onyx is smothering me. It's that duality that has me lashing out.

"I don't want you here! I don't want you coddling me, worrying about me, or going through whatever you're going through! I don't have the room or capacity to deal with your shit!"

"MJ," he pleads with worry in his tone.

I place a hand over my mouth, choking back a cry. My gaze lowers to the black and white marbled tile floors of our bathroom. I hiccup with a sob.

"Just go. Please leave me alone."

He slams the bathroom door closed behind him.

"Onyx," I cry brokenly but not loud enough for him to hear me.

After a couple of minutes, I regain my composure, and I walk into our bedroom and look around. It's become a war zone.

It holds so many memories of love and has been the recipient of such beautiful, intimate sexual memories created between us. Yet, over the last five weeks, it had been devoid of all that. The only memories created were those of crying, twisted nightmares, and tormented arguments.

The internal battle that I'm facing between not conceiving, the physical assault, and subsequent panic attacks have gripped me so tightly that I can't function anymore. I'm not being a good wife to my husband, a good friend, or even a good instructor.

I find myself drifting off during class most days, and the staff meetings that I hold aren't worth shit. I'm no good to anyone.

Onyx's face is screwed up in misery, and he doesn't even look up at me.

"I'm not trying to be cruel. I just...need to deal with my shit, and I can't handle you right now. Okay?" I say compassionately, even as I watch him put his shoes on again and grab his keys from a tray on his nightstand.

How had I not heard him come home in the first place? Caught up in my own pity party, I had completely missed the clanking of his keys against the porcelain tray, the soft click of the bedroom door closing behind him, or even the thud of his shoes as he kicked them off.

I had not heard the shuffle of his footsteps as he slid across the thick carpeting of our bedroom towards the bathroom. If I had, then we would not be in this space we're in now. I would have had time to get myself together.

"You keep pushing me away, MJ, and I don't know how to handle that. I only know how to be a man who's all about his woman. A man who loves, cherishes, and protects her. I failed to protect you. Let me at least—"

"No! No! You don't get to throw your guilt trip on me. You don't get to make me feel bad for something that wasn't my fault! And you're not all about your woman! You're the biggest damn flirt out there! Always up in some woman's face smiling, grinning, and charming them! Beautiful, spoiled Onyx cannot go a moment without the approval or admiration of some woman!" I shout.

"Where the hell is this coming from?" he asks, walking towards me.

I hold my hand out to stop him in his tracks. "Don't! Just...go someplace where you're wanted or needed because I don't need your pity party!"

"I'm not pitying you, MJ! And what's with the fucking mood swings? You're all down my throat one second, you're nice to me another, and then you're back in my shit again the next!"

"Just go!" I scream.

Despair fills me as I watch my husband walk out on me, slamming the door behind himself and leaving me alone, unable to argue, defend, or even articulate my emotions on the subject. Because the truth of the matter is, I've placed the blame for what happened to me on him, and he doesn't even know it.

The only thing I can think about is the fact that Jesse was somehow associated with his father's business, and that I became his target because of their wealth and dismissal of people.

I fight to swallow my tears as I walk to the window and stare out of it at the naked, grey trees standing sentinel along the empty sidewalks of our neighborhood. They look as barren as I feel despite the strange feelings growing inside of me. But what can be done?

The sound of Onyx's footsteps trudging down the steps leaves me feeling empty.

A wind draft pulls through the house as he opens the front door of our home and slams it closed again. I pull my robe tighter around my nude body, trying to shield myself against the cold that invades not only our home but permeates my soul. If the chill that causes me to shudder is a premonition of the things to come, I'm in trouble.

Five weeks. That's how long it's been since the nightmare that seemed as if it would never end started. Five long weeks, and now it's taking another turn for the worse. I need my husband by my side, but we only find room for arguments these days. There's no comfort to be found no matter where I turn.

My father gave me grief from the moment I announced that I planned to marry Onyx Matthias Maxwell, the owner of a successful commercial property management company and son of Johnathon Monroe Briggs-Maxwell, CEO of Balaskas House, the country's leading big publishing house and one of the heirs of the Balaskas-Maxwell fortune and his lovely wife, Christina Huntington-Maxwell, a successful neurosurgeon. If it wasn't enough that Onyx comes from a wealthy family, his own parents came from parents who were "stinking rich," as my father once described them.

My own humble beginnings in South Carolina have been something my parents always taught me to be proud of. But when my father learned I was marrying a man who was from a wealthy family, he warned me that I'd never be good enough for them. The only thing they would do is look down their noses at me. His anger grew when he learned Onyx was not Christian but Protestant.

Marcus Holloway Sr. gave me one simple order. I could not marry that man, and if I did, I would be disowned by my own family. I cried so hard, and never had I felt so alone as I pleaded with my father to understand my perspective. Dad had simply hung his head in despair and instructed the rest of the family that they were not to speak to me again if I insisted upon following through with this foolishness.

My brothers didn't listen to the order, thankfully, and neither did my mother. In time, my father changed his mind about me, but not about my husband or his family.

His family comes from the prestigious world of privilege and money. I, on the other hand, had worked two jobs, scraping and scrimping to get by while attending school at the Greta Richards Dance School, one of the city's premier dance institutes. After I'd graduated, I continued working hard to finally purchase my own dance studio.

Despite what my father said, my in-laws appear to love me on the surface as long as I stay in line. When things like Danica calling or texting me instead of them or taking my calls instead of theirs pop up, then I feel their discomfort and their judgment.

Although I'm now the choreographer to the city's premier ballet company and I'm the owner of my own dance studio, I sometimes feel that, in the eyes of Johnathon Monroe Briggs-Maxwell and Christina Huntington-Maxwell, I'm merely a girl from the hood who happens to dance.

That, paired with knowing that I will always be a target if I remain with Onyx, makes me know that what I'm doing is the right thing. I love my husband, but I have to push him away. If I want to save myself, I can't have him.

Yet, how can I breathe without him?