Rely On Me

By M.J. Penn

Tessa Dalca has the odds stacked against her: she’s attending college on an academic scholarship while holding down three part-time jobs, she owes an astronomical amount of money for medical bills, and her father is barely able to take care of himself. The financial and emotional burden she caused her family years ago still haunts her&mdas

• Language: English
• Publisher: MJ Penn Inc.
• Release date: Mar 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781952162039

M.J. Penn

My parents were adventurous and made the decision to immigrate to the U.S. when I was a teenager. We moved to Southern California, and I've lived here ever since, well, except when I moved away a few times for college. When I finally found the courage to pursue my passion for writing, I left my job as a tax and accounting Professor at the university. To feed the creative part of my brain, I write New Adult and contemporary romance novels. Just like my heroines, I'm passionate, strong, and don't claim that I'm perfect. I hope that my novels will inspire readers. I hope the readers are searching for their own truths and happily-ever-after. I've realized that the only thing that really matters is love-the deep human connections we form during our lifetime. I live in Southern California with my college-sweetheart husband and my son. I enjoy walks at the beach, and I try to keep up with my son's energy levels on most days. I also have this crazy goal of running a marathon one day.

Book preview

Chapter One

Itoy with the gold band on my ring finger as I sit in Dr. Vargas’s lecture, waiting for our business stats exam results. Please hurry.

Dr. Vargas is known for running at least five minutes over in every class. Usually, I might be worried about my exam grade, but today all I can do is stare at the gold band. I twist it around my finger, over and over.

It’s the three-year anniversary of Mom’s death. Only divine intervention will keep me from talking to her. Dignity Hills Memorial Cemetery is twenty-five miles away. It’s already five after nine and morning traffic in LA is horrific, especially on a Friday. I sigh. Sneaking out of the classroom is not an option; I’m in a squeaky broken chair in perfect line of sight of the professor.

I scan the vast tiered auditorium as if I would find another way to leave early. Although this classroom is one of the newest on campus, it still has the old-age and businesslike feel to it—plastic chairs and long gray desks that span from the stairs to the wall.

I snap out of my thoughts as the professor announces, Sixty percent of you didn’t pass the exam. Dr. Vargas’s monotone voice echoes in the big auditorium. Some professors opt to use a wireless microphone clipped to their shirts for rooms this large, but not Vargas. She has no problem projecting.

Next to me, my friend Jess bites her lip and taps her fingers on the desk.

And there is only one A in the class.

Jess’s eyes widen as she glances at me. My breath catches in my throat. I need that A. I can’t afford to lose my scholarship. Bastien University is the only university located close enough to my dad’s apartment and the cemetery, but it’s a pricey private school I can only afford because they gave me a full-ride business scholarship. Since I started college a year and a half ago, I’ve been visiting my dad every Friday afternoon. He needs me, and I need him more than he knows.

I’m startled when the professor’s perfectly manicured hand drops my exam in front of me, moves on to Jess, and then down the row of students.

I got the A!

With lightning speed, I flip my exam face down and return my gaze to Jess. She’s pale. I’m afraid she’ll pass out.

Jess drops her paper on the desk and covers her face with her hands.

Oh my God. Her voice drops to a whisper. I won’t make it. I won’t be able to pass business statistics. I hate numbers.

I peek at the exam in front of her with a red, bold D+ on the top.

I put my hand on her shoulder, not knowing what else to do. Quiet sobs escape behind me, and I glance back as a female student pulls out tissues and dabs her face. I concentrate on Jess again, whose crystal blue eyes glisten as they shift side to side, not really focusing. She does this when she’s thinking. Suddenly, she snatches my exam.

I reach for it, but it’s too late.

I knew it!

I grab the exam back, shushing her before heads turn our way.

Her eyes are big and round, and she lowers her voice. Oh my God. This is a repeat from History last year. You made the only A in that class too.

Jess and I met a year and a half ago at freshmen orientation. After finding ourselves in the same classes and across the hall from each other in the student apartments, we became fast friends. The student apartments were not on my radar originally. The alternative was to rent an apartment farther from campus and commute every day. But gas is expensive, so I created a spreadsheet with the cost of each alternative, and as surprising as it was, the smallest apartment in the luxury student complex came out to be the slightly cheaper option. Jess is the only friend I have, as lame as that sounds, a fact I couldn’t incorporate in the spreadsheet. My workaholic tendencies don’t necessarily create an environment conducive to making friends at school.

"Jess, business statistics is much harder than History. This one is part of our major, so the classes have to get progressively harder and harder."

"That is not helping, Tessa!" She gives me one of her stern looks.

Well, I think you can come back from it. We’ve got one more exam and a final paper still.

She doesn’t hear me because she’s already orbiting Planet Panic, hyperventilating.

If I don’t pass this class, then we won’t be taking any more classes together, you know. We’ll be out of sync. She grabs my hand, her gaze earnest. We need to walk the stage together at graduation, remember. And besides, my parents will kill me if I fail. She shakes her head while her long blond curls bounce.

I yelp when she squeezes my hand a bit too much.

But you can help me! she yells, and a few heads turn our way. I peek down at the podium to see if Dr. Vargas has heard us, which thankfully she hasn’t… yet.

Shh…Jess. I nod my head in the direction of the professor.

"I don’t care. I really need your help."

Uh-oh.

You have to tutor me. Please, please. Jess gives me the sweetest smile ever, revealing perfectly-aligned white teeth.

I…don’t know, Jess. I hesitate to say no. You know my schedule. I’m really struggling with…just finding time for anything. Don’t they have a tutoring lab here?

No, the lab is for the upper-level stats courses only. I know you are really busy, but— She narrows her eyes. By the way, what time did you go to bed last night? Okay, don’t answer that. You’ve been yawning through the entire class.

Jess pauses and puts her delicate hands in front of her as if she is praying. I won’t be able to make it without you. I know your crazy schedule, but do you think we can meet up just once, so I can get some guidance and go over your answers?

I yawn. Damn. Now I’m going to notice all my yawns. I really want to help her, but when will I be able to find the time to meet up with her? I need to visit Mom, go to my tutoring job, stop by Dad’s, then wait tables at Barney’s. I sigh. Any time remaining is for my own studying. I can’t let my GPA slip.

But Jess is my friend, my only friend. I have to help.

Okay, I’ll tutor you. But, Jess… I pause because I want her to know I’m very serious about this. When we meet to study, you promise we’ll be focused and productive?

Yes. Pinky swear?

A-ha. I’m just saying—no gossiping about boyfriends or girlfriends or whatever, and no social media. Okay?

Yes, ma’am. She winks at me.

I’m afraid I know exactly how our tutoring session is going to go, and I sigh.

Dr. Vargas announces we are dismissed, so I hastily grab my papers, notebook, and pens.

You look exhausted. And your eyes are red again, Tessa.

I could take a nap right here. One more yawn escapes my mouth, and Jess laughs.

Isn’t it like, an hour drive to the cemetery? Jess raises her eyebrows as she stands from her chair.

I make every effort not to fall off my chair as I stand. Of course, I sat in the only broken chair in the entire classroom.

Yep, but I’ll be all right.

Text me, okay? Just whenever you have time. To make sure you are doing fine. Promise?

"Yes, Mother. I promise."

She sends me two air kisses for each cheek—her signature goodbye move. And with that, I leave Jess, who turns to chat with the girl sitting on her other side.

I’ve had long days before. It’s nothing an extra cup of coffee can’t fix.

Sitting at the back, closer to one of the exits, allows me to leave the classroom first—and not be noticed by anyone who may want to talk to me. Not that I don’t want to talk to anyone, exactly the opposite. It’s just that my school and work schedules don’t precisely align with the social life of a college student.

As I am about to walk out the double doors, Dr. Vargas’s flat voice calls my name. I turn abruptly, bumping into a student, and quietly apologize. The professor waves at me to come downstairs. Great. I will be in traffic, and I’m not sure if I’ll have enough time to visit the cemetery before work. I’m sorry, Mom.

I take two steps at a time, which turns out to be a terrible idea because I trip and fly down the stairs, right toward the podium. Before I kiss the auditorium floor, two powerful hands steady me by my waist. The hands move lower and lower, finally gripping my hips. They must belong to a giant. I yelp as the visor of my baseball cap hits the chest of this giant and falls off on the nearby stair. Bastien University Football is written on a gray shirt, which hugs bulging pecs. When I look up, amber eyes study me with amusement through thick black eyelashes.

I recognize the perfectly sculpted face, dazzling grin, square jaw, and pure manliness. Nope, not a giant. Unless this giant has a sensual mouth with alluring lips. I gasp and inhale earthy cologne, which reminds me of pine trees. The giant is Logan Hamilton, the famous player, in every meaning of the word. He plays for our university football team, but he also plays well with the girls on campus.

Wow, baby doll, are you okay?

Did he just call me—

Baby doll? I roll my eyes.

You were about to tumble. Hard. Are you okay?

Does he care? I stir a little in his solid hands, and he releases me as if on cue.

Thank you for stopping me from totally embarrassing myself.

At my height, I consider myself tall, but Logan is almost two heads taller, probably around six-five or so. Our gazes meet. As those gorgeous eyes are studying me, a shiver goes through my body.

He gives me a charming smile. No problem, baby doll.

Ugh. My body temperature rises.

He ignores me. Logan stretches his muscular hand to shake mine.

I’m Logan—

I ignore his hand. "Yes, I know exactly who you are, Logan Hamilton."

I bet he has no idea what my name is. He raises his eyebrows and runs his hand through his short black hair. Damn. That gesture is so sexy. I can see the magnetism this guy projects. His features radiate strength and intelligence and sexiness…and he’s a player. I release a heavy sigh.

Remembering where I am, I start picking up the million papers that now cover the stairwell, wishing I could leave as soon as possible.

Then he kneels and grabs a few sheets near him.

You don’t have to help me, I say with a clenched jaw. I try to hold my breath, so I don’t inhale more of his woodsy scent.

You’re right, I don’t have to do anything. But I want to.

I throw a side-glance in his direction as his lips turn up in a smile. He picks up my test and snaps his eyes at me. His head snaps back and forth to the paper, then me again. He turns my exam around, displaying my grade to the whole world.

Wow, baby doll. You got the only A in class.

I snag the exam from his hand as fast as I can.

First of all, I am not a baby doll. I bet this works with the girls on campus who melt at baby doll and have no chance against his solid body and smooth-talking manner.

Okay. I meant Tessa, sorry. He shrugs his muscular shoulders in the most innocent manner ever. I bet he thinks he’s charming.

I assume he knows my name from seeing it on the paper. He is arrogant, and I know his type.

And second of all— I completely forgot what I was going to say. Umm. I need to make good grades.

Logan opens his mouth, but I interrupt him.

I need to go. Thank you again. I pick up my worn-out backpack, which I’ve had since junior high, and place my exam safely inside.

I was wondering if you—

I’m sorry, Logan, I’m already late.

I turn my back to him and take the last two steps gingerly to get to Dr. Vargas, who has been waiting for me with a grin on her face. She’s clearly witnessed my exchange with Logan. Perfect.

I’m sorry, Professor.

I take a breath. Now I’ll be even more late to visit Mom.

It’s quite all right. I am used to waiting on the girls, especially when a certain Golden Boy is involved.

Dr. Vargas catches me off guard with her comment, but then I remember she is famous in the College of Business for her bluntness. Golden Boy…as in his eyes are golden? No one can miss the vibrancy of Logan’s eyes—pure gold—boundless and intoxicating. I’ve never seen anything like it.

I’m not sure what you mean, Professor… I glance at the classroom clock behind her.

I probably shouldn’t have said that, but I have tenure. She laughs at some unspoken thought that I don’t understand. Anyway, Mr. Hamilton is our university Golden Boy. He is the quarterback of our winning football team. He is a big deal on campus.

I have no idea how our football team is doing, and I have no time to go to any of the games. Maybe the winning football season inflates his ego. Now I wonder what grade Logan got and whether professors just give out good grades to the Golden Boys on campus. I need to be going. I catch myself tapping my foot and stop immediately.

Professor, you wanted to talk to me about something?

Oh, yes. You did very well on the first exam. And as you already know, our small lab can’t accommodate any more tutoring sessions. Also, this is a difficult course. This semester we have one A, yours, on the first exam, but last semester there were none. You’re the only eligible student who can provide peer tutoring for this class. Dr. Vargas puts her hands on her waist and clears her throat. You wouldn’t mind leading a few tutoring sessions this semester, would you?

 Oh, I have a hectic schedule, I’m not sure… I lower my gaze to my hands, not knowing what to do with them.

I understand that. Most students have busy schedules. That’s how it’s supposed to be in college.

I can’t really argue with her, can I? As a daughter of immigrants, I had to grow up very fast. And right now, I feel like the roles of the parent and child are reversed in my family. I try to take care of my dad as much as I can. I also know that most students, at least at this university, don’t have three jobs and a full-time school schedule while caring for their parents. I nod to her while pressing my lips tightly, trying to hold back my words.

What did you have in mind, Dr. Vargas? How many hours per week?

At least one hour per week. Very informal. I’m leaving it up to you to lead the sessions as you see fit. She gives me a small smile. I would be more than happy to provide you with a recommendation letter, and you can use me as a reference in your future job search.

Now she has my attention, but the next exam is in five weeks. I take a deep breath.

 You really have a knack for numbers, and your talent will benefit the others in the class. What’s your major?

Accounting.

So I’ll be seeing a lot more of you in the next few semesters. Her eyes brighten.

As part of my major, I’ll be taking advanced business stats with her in next fall semester. I want to stay in her good graces. I plan to work as a staff accountant. I’ve done the research, and her recommendation letter is by far my best shot at obtaining a job out of college.

I take a deep breath. OK. I’ll do it.

Wonderful. When I see you on Monday, I’ll have the room number for you.

I pull my backpack onto my shoulders and head out. As I’m walking outside, I readjust the straps of the bag. It feels like they’ll give up any moment and snap off. I check the spots where the straps connect to the bag, and a few threads are missing. Not a surprise. The weight I’ve been putting on this backpack since junior high is increasing, and one of these days it will fall apart under the growing pressure.

I’ve never missed a visit to the cemetery. Every Friday. Every week. For three years. The hollowness in my chest is just that—hollow. Why is it so hard to make it there today? I’ll be later than my usual time, but I’ll make it there. My only consolation is when I visit her. All I want to do is talk to Mom, even if it’s at the cold gray headstone.

Leaving the business building, I come to a halt. Huge puddles line the pathway leading to the student parking lot. The sprinklers are on, and they are spraying all over. Why? Why would they possibly be on at this time of the day? I sigh. Broken sprinklers create an awe-inspiring rainbow on my way to my car. Other students stop and enjoy the sight. I can walk around it, but I don’t have the time, so I dash across the pathway. It’s sunny out, I’ll dry fast. My jeans and white shirt immediately stick to my body, and I swear under my breath.

As I lift my gaze, a group of students laugh and giggle by a large blue truck. The cars surrounding it are just as shiny and expensive-looking. A few girls are getting in and out of the truck bed, asking the guys around for help. I recognize Logan as one of the guys, and he is looking right at me. Shivers travel down my body and I tremble. I grip the straps of my backpack harder.

Must be nice to have time for fun. I shake my head. I don’t want to turn into a bitter girl who is endlessly bitchy and negative. I know everything I do is my choice, and I take responsibility for my actions. It’s the way it is.

My car is parked only one row from Logan, and it stands out like it did in high school: not in a good way. The two-door silver Toyota is ancient and covered in dust. But it’s mine. I get inside and inhale slowly. Ahhh. Coffee. I’m thankful I left my full travel mug in the car. I could use a pick-me-up right now. I lift up the mug to my mouth as I peer in the general direction of the blue truck.

Logan is walking toward me. I yelp in surprise and coffee spills on my jeans.

Really?!

It’s hard not to notice Logan and the confidence he walks with. He’s taking wide and unfaltering steps. And suddenly, Mr. Golden Boy is knocking on my window. A playful grin dances across his face. I sigh and roll down the window, twisting and turning the handle. Logan raises his eyebrows and runs a hand through his short, nearly military-style, black hair. For crying out loud. I’m staring.

I thought most cars have automatic windows nowadays.

I search for sarcasm in his voice, but there isn’t any. He seems truly amused.

Most cars do, but this is not one of them. My family saved money for a long time to buy this salvaged car. She is pretty old, but still runs.

We bought the car from another Romanian family who had a small car dealership in LA. I pat the steering wheel. I’m thankful I have this baby.

I twist the key in the ignition, and a disturbing noise sounding as if someone is choking on a piece of carrot comes out.

I see. She is definitely something…and not working.

Thank you for stating the obvious.

Logan leans on my window with his head way too close for my liking. I get goose bumps on my arms, but it’s because I’m afraid my car won’t start.

C’mon. I try one more time. The muffler makes a coughing sound.

Phew.

"How can I help you, Logan Hamilton?"

I love the way you say my name. He gives that gorgeous grin of his, and tension creeps up my shoulders and neck.

I gesture to his smile. Does this usually work with the girls?

I lean across the passenger seat and roll down the window, not even bothering to try the A/C, which stopped working months ago.

All the time. But listen, I want to talk to you about something. His voice is low and rough.

I fish out a scrunchie from my jeans pocket and attempt to put my long hair up into a ponytail, knowing that it will go in every direction possible once I get onto the freeway. Logan follows my every move, but his gaze lingers a little too long on my white shirt.

You didn’t run fast enough? His amber eyes darken, but to his credit, his eyes quickly move to my face. His eye contact is firm.

Instinctively, I cross my arms over my chest.

Yeah, you can say that. Anyway, I don’t want to sound rude, but I really need to go. I put the shifter into reverse and take my foot off the brake pedal.

Wow. You drive a stick?

Logan’s eyes turn extra-large, staring at my hand clasping the black ball of the gearshift. Manual cars are cheaper, but hard to drive, especially in LA traffic. My dad taught me how to drive a stick, one of our many bonding moments together.

Sorry, Logan. But…I’m working at Barney’s tonight. If you need to still talk.

With that, I wave and leave campus.

I doubt I’ll see him again. What could Logan possibly want from me? I’d rather avoid him. Guys like him should come with a warning—trouble. And trouble is the last thing I want now…no matter how alluring it may be.

Chapter Two

Just like that, three years ago, she was gone, leaving an empty hole in my heart that I’ve tried to fill ever since. I’ll be late for my tutoring job at my old school, but I have to see her.

The cemetery is on my way to the job, located on the outskirts of Los Angeles, maybe forty or fifty minutes from school.

I park at the bottom of the hill and walk into the main office of the mortuary.

Hello, Tessa, Ms. Maria, who is in charge of the mortuary, says. Are you buying flowers today? She smiles at me, her face warm and her voice soft.

Mm-hmm. I pull my wallet from my backpack. I’ve budgeted for this.

I saved the last begonias for you. I knew you’d be coming.

She reaches for the flowers behind the front desk. Vases with roses, lilies, and other flowers decorate a foldable table. The fresh blooms overwhelm me as soon as I walk into the lobby. Everything reminds me of Mom. Even the scene of flowers makes me think of the candles my mom liked to light up. I smile; Dad always complained they were a waste of money but would buy them for her without her even asking.

See you around, Tessa.

For sure. I run my fingers through the pink petals—so soft and gentle, just like my mom was. I give a small thankful smile and walk out.

I leave my car in the main parking lot in front of the office. The walk uphill is exhausting, reminding me I’m tired of living without her. The hardest part of coming here every week is that I’m always reminded of her absence. My feelings get multiplied a thousand times here.

It’s quiet and empty. Hundreds of small, knee-high gravestones line the vast hillside. Dad and I didn’t have money to buy a larger stone, not that my mom wanted anything fancy. She was a humble and modest person, used to living on scraps. The tall tombstones with fences around them are way on top of the hill. Row upon row of white marble shining brightly, casting shade on the small gravestones below.

I walk amongst the headstones and read the inscriptions and years of birth and death. Why do people have to die so soon?

A loud shriek gets my attention. A row below, a young woman sits on the spotty green grass with her hands hiding her face. The noise doesn’t come from her sobbing, but rather from the