Then a thought occurred to John. He laughed humorlessly to himself. They’d ridden the train together, sure. But, the whole time, she’d been on her way to visit her rich parents in Connecticut and John had been on his way to Rikers Island. Mary’s world was so much more similar to John’s father’s world than it was to John and Estrella’s world. Part of him tsked unbelievingly at himself for this position he found himself in. Trying to catch a lingering glance of a woman who he firmly needed to remember lived in a different universe than he did. John hadn’t been born into that sparkling, designer-clothes tier of humanity. His father had made sure of that. John had always viewed that as an unintentional favor, the lesson his father’s abandonment had taught him about money and the doors it firmly closed in certain people’s faces. It was part of the reason why John was currently headed to a prison to meet with a client. Because everyone deserved to enjoy the privileges of the constitution. Not just the rich. It was part of the fabric of John’s very belief system. And yet here he was with a glowing warmth in his chest for Mary.

He needed to stay in his lane.

Connecticut with a Prada overnight bag over her shoulder. Rikers Island with a ratty, decade-old messenger bag he’d stowed at his feet.

If that didn’t say everything about the differences between them, he didn’t know what would.

“DO YOU HAVE to be so hard on her, Naomi?”

Mary blinked at her father in surprise. He rarely spoke up during one of her mother’s passive-aggressive tirades. Actually, he rarely spoke up at all. He’d clearly learned the hard way that no good deed went unpunished. But about once a year he reached some private, internal limit and actually plucked up the courage to defend his only child. This dinner, apparently, was the annual event.

“I’m not being hard on her, Trevor,” Mary’s mother snapped. “I’m being realistic.”

“Actually, Mom,” Mary cut in, “it’s possible to be both at once.”

Naomi glowered at Mary. “I’m just attempting to get you to be honest with yourself.”

Mary sighed and talked herself out of a theatrical yawn. That was something a younger, less emotionally mature Mary would do. Mature Mary simply pushed her carrots to one side of her plate and set her fork down. “You want me to be honest with myself about my hypothetical egg viability?”

“It’s not hypothetical. A woman’s fertility plummets at forty! PUH-LUM-METS,” Naomi keened, practically forming the outline of each letter with her lips as she said it. Her pretty green eyes filled with tears. “I’m scared for you, my love. I’m scared you’ll wind up lonely with none of the things that actually matter in life.”