Keep Fighting (Keep #1)

Chapter 1

Gabriella

Vrrrrr. Vrrrrr. Vrrrrrrrrrr.

Rubbing my eyes, I clear my throat and press the screen to answer, “Hello?”

The feminine robotic voice breaks the silence, “You have a call from Oak Knoll Juvenile Detention Facility from inmate,” a young man’s voice interrupts, “James Kovac.” The robotic voice comes back to ask, “Would you like to accept the call? Press one to accept or…” I press one before the voice continues, thankful that the payment for the call is already set up, so I don’t have to get out of bed.

Clicking noises echo through the phone, then I hear a voice I’m very familiar with, “Hey, Mrs. S.” I smile softly at James’ voice.

“Hey, buddy, you’re up early.” I shimmy up against the whitewashed wood surface of my headboard, clearing sleep from my throat, and listen for his response.

“Yeah, sorry, Mrs. S. Did I wake you up?” He sounds remorseful.

“No worries, James, my alarm is supposed to go off in about five minutes, so you actually just gave me an early start to the day.” I keep my voice light. I know the kid’s going through a lot. “Anyway, what’s up?”

“Yeah, so, I got a new cellmate.” He lets that hang without offering additional information.

“Okay. Tell me more.” I keep my voice neutral so I don’t influence his emotions. Something I learned while working on my social work degree.

James releases a sigh, “He said he heard about the plan..er..program or whatever that you’re tryna git me into. Mutherfucka said it was bullshit and I’m finna do hard time.”

Fucking jailhouse lawyers. “James, breathe, buddy.” He takes an audible breath.

“Even though I’m not really supposed to say this to you, I’m gonna.

Your roommate is full of shit.” James snickers, I imagine because I’ve never cursed in front of him, but the idea that some punk is getting in James’ head after all the work he’s put in pisses me off.

“The program works, James, and I’ll do everything I can to get you accepted into it. Don’t listen to some cynical jackass.”

“Okay, Mrs. S.” James is quiet for a minute, then he asks, “Mrs. S.?”

“Yeah?”

“What does cynical mean?” He asks without an ounce of embarrassment or shame. I love that about this kid; he is who he is, take him or leave him. I guess I might be a little envious of his mindset.

“It means not trusting or not believing in people doing good things. I think you guys call it sus.”

“Oooh, okay. I got you.” I can hear him nodding.

“Okay. So, are you good? I mean, do you have any more questions or anything?”

“Nah. I’m good. Thanks for pickin’ up, Mrs. S.” James has told me that several of the people he regularly calls don’t pick up, except for his mom.

“Anytime, buddy.” He doesn’t say anything back. “Look, we’ve got court today, so I’ll grab you before we head in. If you think of any other questions, we can talk about them then. Sound good?”

“Yep. Later, Mrs. S.”

“See you soon, James.”

I place my cell back down as I move to get out of bed, wrestling with my overly fluffy, dusted-pink comforter, and grabbing my silk robe off the bedpost. My feet shuffle across the thick carpet while trying to find my way without light.

The bathroom is bright, with daylight from the ceiling light bouncing off the white and grey tiles of the floor, reflecting against the large mirror.

Pushing through my squinted eyes, I turn on the shower and strip.

Turning to step into the shower, I catch my reflection in the mirror and pause. Typically, I’m cautious not to look in the mirror. For some reason, this morning is different, and I allow just a moment.

I comb my fingers through my thick, dark brown, wavy hair that falls to the middle of my back.

Tired, brown eyes stare back at me as I slide my hands down my pale, anti-supermodel body.

My C-cup breasts feel heavy in my hands, and I remind myself that these slightly sagging breasts nursed two children.

The stretchmarks I run my fingers along spread across a soft belly and thighs.

I drop my hands and stare back at my reflection. All I see is a 39-year-old woman with two kids, an estranged husband who sleeps in a separate bedroom, and childhood trauma that rears its ugly head every time she reflects on herself, with or without an actual mirror. FML.

Stepping out of the shower launches me into my morning routine: brush teeth, lotion face, dry hair, apply makeup, style hair, get dressed, then move downstairs for the next part of the routine.

I’m methodical, repeating the same routine I accomplish every day, all while spending as little time as possible actually seeing myself in the mirror.

Anytime I take an extra peek at myself, I hear my mother’s words in my head.

Oh, Gabriella, are you eating enough vegetables? You could stand to lose a few pounds. Oh, honey, don’t you have the money to sign up for a gym membership? You shouldn’t let yourself go just because you’re married.

And on and fucking on.

I shake my head off the thoughts of my mother, ugh, grow up, what kind of woman lets her mother’s judgy comments run the way she functions? A weak woman, that’s who.

Rolling my eyes at myself, I swipe my nude heels out of the closet.

These’ll work with the black ruched pencil skirt and white chiffon blouse.

My phone in hand, I shut off the bedroom light and walk downstairs.

The house is quiet; the only sound is the click of my heels on the hardwood stairs.

If I’m lucky, I might be able to get the girls out the door and have my coffee in peace, all while avoiding my husband.

“Ladies, let’s move, please! You’re going to be late for school! Again!”

Stomping echoes down the stairs, and Kerri pops around the corner first, her long brown hair swinging from a high ponytail.

“Mom, relaaax,” she huffs, “school’s like five minutes away and the late bell doesn’t ring for another fifteen minutes.

” She turns and snatches her hot pink backpack off the hallway bench, cinching it onto her shoulders.

Her light pink half-shirt shifts a little, exposing some skin above the high waist of her ‘mom’ jeans.

I will never, for the life of me, understand why those are making a comeback.

“Yeah, Mom, we got this.” Abigail rolls her eyes, jogging down the stairs behind her sister, her dark brown, asymmetrical bobbed hair flouncing with each step.

Abby’s black messenger bag swings from her shoulder once she reaches us, her petite body swallowed by the oversized black zip-up hoodie.

A perfect accompaniment to her black throwback Metallica t-shirt, black leggings, and black Chuck high-tops. Oh, my beautiful black sheep.

Lord, grant me the serenity to deal with my 15 and 17-year-old daughters before I lose my shit. Deep breath, Gabbi.

“Okay, girls,” I plaster a Stepford smile on my face. “Have a good day. Oh, Kerrianne, you are driving straight home after you and your sister finish practice today, correct?” I stare at her with a knowing glare.

Kerri’s been meeting up with that Thompson kid after practice and telling me practice was running late.

What she doesn’t know is that I swung by the school the other day to pick up assignments for one of my case kids and saw her hanging out by the football bleachers with him while Abby sat in Kerri’s Jeep.

“Of course, Mom,” Kerri breaks eye contact with me and her face pales a bit, “don’t I always?”

“Mm..hmmm,” that’s about the only response I can muster at the lie she’s delivering. My beautiful, intelligent, sassy-ass daughters finish grabbing a few things around the kitchen and are out of the house.

I feel like one of those people who stand too close to the train when it passes and the gust of wind just blew shit everywhere, and now…silence. At least I can enjoy my coffee before heading to work.

Just going to take a minute for myself. The calm caresses my anxiety as I sip my creamy hazelnut coffee and look around the place I call home.

The kitchen is bright, just like the rest of the house.

White countertops with black and grey marbling, stainless steel appliances, white cabinets, and the same wood floors throughout the house.

As I lean my back against the kitchen counter and lift my favorite flower-covered mug to my lips, I meet his glacier blue eyes, and my body tenses.

His white V-neck pulls taught across his muscular chest and exposes both tattoo sleeves.

His brown hair is wet and mussed. He must have just gotten out of the shower.

When I meet his eyes again, the corners crinkle, and an invisible string lifts the side of his mouth, forming a smirk amidst his light 5 o’clock shadow.

Ugh, his smugness irritates the shit out of me. So much for relaxed coffee time before work. Awkwardness fills the kitchen.

Breaking eye contact, I turn around and dump the rest of my coffee in the sink.

I’ll get another cup when I get to work.

The coffee sucks at work, but at least I won’t feel like I’m being studied like an ant under a magnifying glass.

Or is it a microscope? No, I’m pretty sure it’s a magnifying glass.

“G?” My husband calls out. Did he ask me something? Whoops.

“Yes?” That came out a little more snarky than I meant. “Sorry, what were you saying?” He takes a deep breath, like I’m the frustrating one.

“I asked what you were doing today.” His smirk is gone, and his voice is unaffected as he pushes off the door frame and mechanically steps toward me. It always feels that way, mechanical. It’s like we’re just going through the motions. We have been for a long time.

“I’m going to work. It’s Tuesday, Vic.” Wow, I sound like a bored bitch today. His response, lean forward on the island, hands propped on the counter, and stare at me.