A Thousand Reasons Read online

  A Thousand Reasons

  Mariah Dietz

  Copyright ©Mariah Dietz, 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, printed, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical. Please do not participate or encourage piracy in any capacity.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Hang Le

  Created with Vellum

  Books by Mariah Dietz

  His Series

  Becoming His

  Losing Her

  Finding Me

  The Weight of Rain Series

  The Weight of Rain

  The Effects of Falling

  Haven Point Standalone Series

  Curveball

  Exception

  Contents

  Learn more about mariah

  1. Leela

  2. Leela

  3. Wes

  4. Leela

  5. Wes

  6. Leela

  7. Leela

  8. Leela

  9. Wes

  10. Leela

  11. Wes

  12. Leela

  13. Wes

  14. Leela

  15. Wes

  16. Leela

  17. Wes

  18. Leela

  19. Wes

  20. Wes

  21. Leela

  22. Wes

  23. Wes

  24. Leela

  25. Wes

  26. Wes

  27. Leela

  28. Wes

  29. Leela

  30. Leela

  31. Leela

  32. Wes

  33. Wes

  34. Leela

  Read More From Mariah

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Learn more about mariah

  Website: www.mariahdietz.com

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  For my sweet little Aiden, and his big brothers. Dream big, my Littles.

  1

  Leela

  “It’s so hot today.” Jasmine tips her chin higher, facing the sun.

  A bead of sweat drips down the back of my calf, as though validating my best friend’s assessment. I swipe it away and reach for my paper cup of Dr. Pepper that I’d refilled before following Jasmine to the tiny alley for break. “It’s too hot,” I confirm.

  “It feels nice compared to the arctic cave we work in. I don’t understand how anyone can sit and enjoy food while they’re shivering.”

  “That’s only because you’re like a lizard or something. Somedays, I’d swear you were cold-blooded.”

  Jasmine grins. Her dark hair shines, reflecting the sun. “Solar powered, baby.”

  I laugh. It’s a very accurate statement for Jas, who rises and sleeps with the sun.

  “Are you excited for school to start back up again?” she asks, her eyes still closed as she absorbs the sun’s rays. “I know it’s school, but at least you’ll be able to sit and rest. It will probably feel like a vacation compared to all the hours you’ve worked this summer.”

  I roll my eyes, though she can’t see me. “Med school is a really crappy vacation.”

  Her chin snaps forward, her eyes slit with my deadpan tone. “You’re telling me you’d rather be here making sandwiches, or working at the discount store, or tutoring someone than be using that big brain of yours that will be your ticket to owning a Land Rover and mansion in LA?”

  “You realize that me becoming a doctor in no way ensures I’ll be wealthy, right? And even if I’m able to land a good position and salary, it will take me years—years—to pay back all the student loans I’ve racked up.”

  “You’re avoiding the question. Come Monday, you won’t have to be asking everyone which vegetables they’d like on their sub and explaining the differences in breads, sauces, and peppers while wearing a hat that makes us look like cartoon characters. You’ll be sitting your pretty little ass in a chair in an air-conditioned classroom, listening to professors drone on and on and on while you imagine the details of your dream home.”

  I laugh. “You’re delusional.”

  Her higher laughter joins with mine. “Maybe you’ll bypass having to finish school, and you can win over some rich professor.” Jasmine reaches forward, clasping my arm as her eyes grow round. “Or, your dean!”

  My nose crinkles with disgust. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just suggest I become a trophy wife.”

  Jasmine sighs. “You’d make a terrible trophy wife,” she admits. “You’d get bored. I, on the other hand, would fully embrace sunbathing all day by the pool and drinking my weight in alcohol to tolerate my loveless relationship.”

  “You’re a special kind of depressing this afternoon.” I eye her, wondering what has her so bitter this afternoon.

  Another heavy sigh has her shoulders falling. “I’m just jealous of everyone right now—even of people I don’t know. I know this shade of green isn’t pretty on me, and I’m sorry I suck. I’m just not ready for summer to end. I’m second-guessing my decision to go back to school to be a hairdresser, and I’m second-guessing if I should have bought those boots last night…” She drops her head back.

  “Why so much second-guessing? What’s going on?”

  Jasmine turns her head to face me, her lips curved with a frown. “My mom lost her job again.”

  “What?” I cry. “When?”

  “She told me this morning.”

  “Did she say what happened?”

  Jasmine sits up enough that I can see her pinched lips and sideways glance, exposing that she doesn’t believe whatever her mom’s told her. “Supposedly, she was let go because her manager didn’t like her personally, and she’s going to file a suit against him for wrongful termination.” Jas rolls her eyes. “I have a feeling it’s due to her being late at least once a week and calling in sick so often. I told her no one was going to believe that she was sick again when she called in on Monday.” She’s perpetually sick on days following the weekend, a problem that has led to her to termination on more than a few occasions. “And it’s Jordan’s birthday in a couple of weeks, and I know she hasn’t set any money aside for a gift, or cake, or anything else for that matter.”

  “I can help.”

  “No, you can’t. Just last week I heard you on the phone trying to arrange a payment option for your dad’s hospital bills.”

  I wave her objection away like it’s a simple matter—though it’s far from it—and reach for my purse, withdrawing my wallet.

  “Leela, I can’t take your money,” she says.

  “You can, and you will.” I take out the twin pair of twenties I have tucked behind some old coupons—where I hide all my cash so my brother and sister don’t find it.

  Jasmine shakes her head swiftly.

  “Take it,” I tell her. “You can pay me back.” I shove the bills forward.

  With an angry tremor of her chin, she takes the money. “I’m paying you back, though.”

  “There’s no hurry.”

  “I wish she’d wake up and realize she’s the adult.”

  “Well,” I say. “L
et’s hope she’s out looking for a new job today.”

  Jasmine twists her lips with disbelief. Her mom, Carey, has sadly been less than accountable during Jasmine and her little brother, Jordan’s, lives, failing to remain committed to anything—except for the trailer park we live in and a weekly bottle of tequila. “I’m sure she’s already calculated how long she can file for unemployment and is still in bed.”

  “I’m sorry.” My family has always been poor, but not due to a lack of effort. Both of my parents have worked tirelessly, but since neither of them ever got their GED or graduated from high school, they’ve been stuck in a cycle of dead-end jobs that seldom offer promotions and even more rarely offer health insurance. In addition, their decision to have three children definitely didn’t help their financial strains—especially considering the extracurricular activities my older brother has been involved in since he was barely a teenager.

  “What are you doing today after work?” I ask.

  Jasmine’s muscles slowly relax, and she leans back in the chair again. She’s either relieved to have shared her burden or too exhausted to continue acting like nothing’s wrong. I don’t dare ask. We both know what it’s like to not have. Not have adult supervision for long periods, not have the latest and trendiest clothing or purses, not have cable or a reliable car—but what we do have is pride. Jas and I have worked since we were in grade school, finding random jobs around the neighborhood and later for nearby farmers.

  “I don’t know. It’s too hot to go home. It’s going to feel like an oven in there, and Jordan’s at his dad’s house, which would leave me home with her.”

  “We could go somewhere air-conditioned. Walk around the mall or something?”

  Jasmine frowns. “I don’t need to be reminded of everything I can’t afford. Not today.”

  Though I’m hesitant to extend the offer due to needing to prepare for tomorrow, I swallow my objections. “You can always come to our place, you know. It will be sweltering in there, too, but we could watch a movie or something.”

  “Are you sure? I know you have your routine before school.”

  I shake my head. “Most professors won’t be teaching much on the first day. Plus, I can make sure I have everything later.”

  Jasmine reaches forward and wraps her arms around my neck. “Thanks,” she whispers. I squeeze her in reply. She might not be blood, but she’s family.

  2

  Leela

  “Justice is a dream, salvation an excuse.” My father’s words play on repeat as I make my way to my first class. Apparently, the negativity bug is making its rounds, and bit my dad in the ass. He was bitter this morning, upset about our electric bill being so high due to the recent above average temperatures. I try to remind myself he’s not angry at us—he’s angry at life. Sometimes it’s difficult to discern that difference though, when he spews hatred so openly.

  Dad has a bad habit of always seeing the glass half-empty. Maybe it’s from always living at poverty level or exhaustion from working so much, but it’s difficult for him to ever see the good in a situation. Often, my education is one of the toughest things for him to see through a positive lens. The time and debt associated with earning my doctorate often leave him forgetting that becoming a doctor has been a dream of mine since I was a child—before I knew and understood the responsibilities or the expenses—both monetary and not. Becoming a doctor didn’t mean financial freedom and independence when I’d proudly proclaimed my future profession at age five. No, then the title meant I was going to help people. I was going to keep people safe and healthy—two things I’ve spent an abundant amount of time doing in my home life.

  In middle school, my biology teacher, Mrs. Hammonds, spoke with me and helped me put together an application to apply for scholarships to private schools in the San Diego area, explaining they’d help me reach my goal. Within a month I’d transferred middle schools, and then continued onto a private high school, working weekends and nights, and riding the city bus an extra hour a day so I could go to the best school near our house.

  The hardest part about med school is all those scholarships I’d worked so hard to receive for much of my education vanished.

  Maybe it’s my dad’s negativity from this morning or the knowledge that Jas is spending the day at the small pool in our neighborhood, but I’m not ready for school to begin today. The pressure that’s always brought forth a sense of adrenaline and determination seems weaker this year. And though I’ve always managed to keep my head down and focus on my education, I’ve been more distracted this morning, paying too much attention to the nicer cars and expensive purses my peers own.

  I find my classroom and head inside. More than half of the students are dressed in sweats. In years past, I spent the first day of school fearing everyone would know I was poor when I’d step through the classroom door in my second-hand jeans and a tee that was likely stained or well-worn. Most of my previous classmates showed their wealth through their clothing and accessories, like shoes that cost more than my entire wardrobe and watches that could buy me a new car. Maybe we’ve been stuck in classrooms too long to care anymore.

  I take a seat in the back, where I’ve sat in every class in every grade. In elementary school, shy kids sat in the back with me. In middle school, it was the troublemakers and bullies. In high school, the kids who sat in the back of the class were the ones trying to hide that they were sleeping or texting. For the first time in my educational journey, it doesn’t seem to matter who sits where. Of course I hear the occasional smartass comments callously tossed around, but they’re far fewer, and bullying is so rare that I rarely even associate it with school. If I elect to, I can go without being seen at all, and generally that’s the way I prefer it.

  The seats around me fill with students who boot up their laptops and immediately become engrossed in social media accounts.

  I unpack my new laptop, which I had picked up a housekeeping job this summer to help pay for. My last one had been on its last leg for two years, making the new computer a necessity rather than a luxury. I artfully covered the off-name brand logo with stickers. While I wait for class to begin, I open a document and make a list of things I need to do.

  Talk to Luna

  Go grocery shopping

  Call electric company and find out minimum payment due

  Pay gas co $114.97

  Post ad for tutoring

  Get some gas

  Every single item on the list makes my stomach twist with dread, but calling the utility company is definitely at the top of the pain meter. We haven’t been able to afford paying off our monthly bills entirely in … well, forever. Our dollars just don’t ever stretch quite far enough. Some of the utility companies are better than others with establishing payment plans, but most charge a late fee every month and then tack on interest fees, creating a perpetual cycle of debt that has us paying off more fees than service charges. It’s ridiculous and infuriating, and one day, I swear my family will not have to call to see which service will be cut off without receiving payment, because I will be able to afford to pay off all of their bills while they live in a house big enough for everyone to have their own bedroom.

  The chair beside me fills, and I look up to see a guy with raven hair and bright blue eyes. His cheeks and chin appear like he does something special to make them as defined as his biceps. His skin is a golden tan, and his cheeks are covered with a closely groomed beard that his short nails scrape over. “Hey, Leela,” he says. Leaning back in his chair, he pulls his laptop from a bag that appears more worn than mine. He isn’t careful with the device as he plops it down in front of him and boots it up.

  “Hey, Max.” I don’t know if I should smile or try engaging him in conversation. I never do. We met last year when we were both tutoring. At first I thought he was like me and needed extra cash. Then I saw him leave in a new gray truck, and he became a bit of a puzzle for me. Everything about him seemed like a contradiction, from his tattered backpack to takin
g the time to know my name.

  “Did you have a good summer?” he asks, flipping through screens on his cell phone.

  Hundreds of hours of working my different jobs have me ready to respond with an immediate ‘no,’ but the word subsides as I think of all the moments peppered in with Jasmine. Afternoons at the pool. Our trip to the zoo with her little brother, Jordan. Scoring free passes to Disneyland from a radio show. Roasting marshmallows and cooking hotdogs in the backyard when it was too hot to turn on the oven. I smile. “It was pretty great.”

  Max looks up from his phone, his dark brows lifted, framing his impossibly blue eyes that scan over me, looking for answers I’m pretty sure I don’t possess. He laughs, and it’s dark and rumbly, and makes his features soften. I’ve never seen him smile. Not once. I know because it struck me as odd that someone who had so much going for them when it came to looks and opportunities could be so dark and angry. It leaves me staring at him for a few seconds before I realize he’s staring back at me.

  “How was your summer?” I ask, my voice pitched too high.