He wanted to curl in on himself, to look around his studio apartment and take it apart piece by piece in his head, comparison by comparison. Rejecting Mary’s judgment of him was difficult, like deep breathing through a charley horse. Part of him wanted nothing more than to admit that she was right. That he was a broke, shabby public defender, and she was right for changing her mind about him.

But no.

He scratched Ruth under the chin and balanced his cup of coffee on his knee.

Succumbing to that kind of self-hatred was a disservice to Estrella, to the way he’d been raised. It was admitting that his father was right. That money mattered more than anything else. John hadn’t let his self-worth be bought by his father, and he wouldn’t let it be sold by Mary.

“Just because I’m not what she wants doesn’t mean I’m not good enough for her,” he informed Ruth, who merely arched a feline eyebrow and gave a rather pointed yowl. “Even if her mattress is a damn cloud and her room looks like a page from a West Elm catalog.”

He stood up and strode to stand in front of the box fan. It was too hot in his apartment to sit in one place.

“You don’t care about West Elm, do you, Ruth?” he asked her as she plowed her forehead into his ankles. “That’s why you’re my best girl. All you need is food in your bowl and water—Oh, crap.” He strode over and filled up her water bowl, plopped a fresh can of food down for her.

He stood in front of the box fan and watched Ruth eat her breakfast. His insides hurt. He was haunted by thoughts of Mary’s bedroom. The expensive, decorative baubles twisting in the sunlight at her window, the framed art photographs he was willing to bet were originals, her heaven-soft duvet cover that wasn’t made of any material John had ever encountered before.

He winced and dragged a hand over his face, trying like hell not to feel like an idiot for thinking he had a real chance with her.

In an attempt to trick his mind into another direction, John pulled out his phone and opened his email. There at the top of the stack was the unanswered email he’d received from his father last week.

Come spend time with me, son, his email had implored.

You’re too rich for comfort, John’s non-reply had said back.

John sighed. Why was it always about money? “Whaddaya think, Ruthie?” John asked, setting his phone back down on his kitchen table. “Should I shelve my dignity for a week and let my father take me on a bonding vacation?” Jack would certainly pay for it if John told him he couldn’t afford to go.