by J. J. Murray
Outstanding praise for the novels of J. J. Murray!
A GOOD MAN
“In this deceptively light but ocean-deep sendup of dating and reality television, Murray takes a fun, reflective look at interracial relationships.... The religious elements are always uplifting and never overbearing, and readers should brace for a three-hanky finale.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Murray orchestrates another smart, entertaining interracial romance.... Murray’s wonderful characters, caring perspective, humor, and the story’s fabulous ending make this a winning read.”
—Booklist
“J. J. Murray uses the reality TV show and the behind-the-scenes machinations to launch a romantic comedy between well-developed characters with a unique introspective style. The burdens of interracial love are interwoven without a squeamish approach. On the flip side, the blessings of interracial love are celebrated with a masterful touch that rings true with genuine respect and consideration. A Good Man earns a place at the top of the to-be-read pile.”
—USA Today
I’LL BE YOUR EVERYTHING
“A sexy story of love, romance, and getting even.”
—Upscale Magazine
THE REAL THING
“Murray tells a sexy story of interracial love that’s long on charm, romance, and humor.”
—Booklist
ORIGINAL LOVE
“Thoughtful and well done.”
—Library Journal
SOMETHING REAL
“Something Real is about a woman finding herself and finding her voice in a community too quick to judge. Renee and Jay was a promising debut. Something Real, which is a more mature and richer work, is even better.”
—The Roanoke Times
“Delightful! Sexy! Touching! Something Real is like a burst of sunshine. This release is definitely something special and something real! This is a story that readers must experience for themselves.”
—Romance in Color
Books by J. J. Murray
RENEE AND JAY
SOMETHING REAL
ORIGINAL LOVE
I’M YOUR GIRL
CAN’T GET ENOUGH OF YOUR LOVE
TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING
THE REAL THING
SHE’S THE ONE
I’LL BE YOUR EVERYTHING
A GOOD MAN
YOU GIVE GOOD LOVE
UNTIL I SAW YOUR SMILE
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
until I saw your smile
J.J. Murray
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Postscript
Copyright Page
For Amy
Chapter 1
Matthew Mark McConnell, self-employed Internet lawyer, opened the door of his apartment above Mittman’s Pharmacy and Jesse’s Plastic Covers at South 3rd and Havemeyer Street in the shadow of the Williamsburg Bridge in Brooklyn, and he didn’t smell baleadas cooking, nor did he get his usual spicy kiss from his girlfriend, Joy.
He stepped inside and sniffed the air. Oranges? I haven’t had an orange in months. I wonder where Joy found them.
“Joy, did you get us some oranges? Where’d you find them? Santos? Alegria? I was just at Melo’s and didn’t see any.” He had seen grapefruits in abundance but only because someone had decided February should be National Grapefruit Month. The shortest month for a sour fruit.
He opened the closet door and hung up his dripping trench coat, its lining loose and flapping. He then set his laptop case and a plastic bag containing microwave popcorn on the pockmarked walnut kitchen table.
“I got the popcorn,” he said in the direction of the apartment’s only bedroom. “Are we eating out tonight?”
He heard the usual buzzing of the refrigerator, the drip at the sink, the steady hum of traffic on 3rd Street, the hiss of the radiator in the living room, and the ticking of the clock above the stove.
Perhaps Joy is hiding under the covers, he thought. So my sweet Honduran princesita wants to cook in bed tonight instead. This week is going to end in style.
“Tu eres muy sexy,” he called out. “Tengo ganas.”
And that was almost the extent of Matthew’s grasp of Spanish. Joy was very sexy, and he was horny. What else is necessary to know on a Friday night?
Before he joined his belleza chiquita warming up in the bedroom, a flash of pale yellow paper caught his eye. Affixed to the refrigerator, just below the “World’s No. 1 Teacher” magnet Joy’s elementary students had made for her, was a Post-it:
Off to the DR with Carlo.
Key on nightstand.
Adios, anciano!
PS: Sorry!
Matthew blinked at the Post-it.
He reread the Post-it.
He continued to blink.
He looked at the kitchen counter, an empty space crawling with dust and bread crumbs. Where’s the microwave? Did it die already? It serves me right for buying a used microwave with a thirty-day warranty—
He read the Post-it a third time.
Anciano? I’m not an old man. I’m not ancient. Thirty-five isn’t old. Joy says it doesn’t matter that I am ten years older than she is. She says she likes a man with a little extra mileage on him. And she says she’s sorry? Doubtful. I have never heard her say, “I’m sorry.” I have never heard either of us say “I love you” either, but we’re working on that. And what’s with the smiley face? Who puts a smiley face—
He closed his eyes.
Who puts a smiley face on a breakup Post-it?
Matthew briefly wondered if “the DR” was a new restaurant somewhere in somewhat trendy, hip Williamsburg.
Only briefly did he wonder this. He knew his hometown and all its eateries like the back of his now shaking hand.
He tried valiantly to take stock of his situation.
Joy is off to the Dominican Republic with Carlo.
Joy has left me for Carlo while I sat at the Atlas Café all day sponging off their free Wi-Fi and electricity, trying to solicit clients. Okay, okay. I only played marathon games of Internet spades, ate pear chocolate turnovers, and drank sour coffee.
Joy, my girlfriend for a year and my giggly, sexy roommate for the last six months, has left me . . . for Carlo.
Who’s Carlo?
Oh, right. The short, hairy guy I met at Tabaré a few weeks ago. “You just have to meet him,” Joy had said. “Carlo is so amazing. He has so many stories to tell about his beautiful country.”
It still ended with the smiley face.
An exchange teacher. Carlo di Ponti or di Pointy or something like that. Joy has run off with an exchange teacher. He’s only here for a few months with his students from the Dominican Republic. “I love your country,” Carlo said to me. “It has so many possibilities.” I suppose that’s Dominican code for “I’m taking your smoking hot girlfriend back to my country, ha ha, you stupid anciano!”
An exchange teacher. Who runs off with an exchange teacher? Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Isn’t Carlo supposed to get Joy to marry him here so he can get his green card and stay here? What color card will Joy get down there?
Out of habit and not knowing what to do with the breakup Post-it now crumpling in his hand, he opened the refrigerator door and looked inside.
It was empty.
Except for a smattering of spills and congealed, red blobs clinging to the wire metal shelves, it was completely empty.
Joy took the leftovers.
She took the leftover tortillas. She took the bean soup and the fish soup. She took the yogurt, celery, cheese, butter, bacon, bottled water, and all the condiments, too.
What kind of disturbed, psychotic woman takes a man’s condiments? What, are they traveling on the slow boat to the Dominican Republic and they’re not sure where their next meal will come from?
No, Carlo and his students originally flew into JFK.
How are they going to get all that onto the plane?
He opened the bottom right drawer of the refrigerator, the one usually reserved for alcohol. She took the bottle of Krug Grande Cuvee, the champagne we had been saving for a special occasion. I guess today was a special occasion for her.
He looked at the top of the refrigerator and saw more emptiness. She took the box of stale Ritz crackers and the last bag of Bachman’s pretzels. She and Carlo must be flying coach. I hope those pretzels are so salty she has to drink Caribbean water and gets the runs while she’s in the air! Maybe the blue water in the plane’s bathroom will splash up on her—
He checked the freezer compartment. All the Lean Cuisines and even the last Trader Joe’s Chicken Tandoori and Celentano lasagna were gone, too.
Joy left one ice cube tray containing half of one crusty, frostbitten cube of ice.
He left the kitchen for the bedroom and looked at his bed, now a collection of rumpled bed sheets, the comforter thrown back to the headboard, the pillows mounded suggestively in the middle.
I made the bed this morning, didn’t I? I always make the bed. Joy says she can’t reach all the way across and that it hurts her shoulders to pull up the comforter. And why do I smell more oranges? Carlo smelled like orange juice at Tabaré, but I thought it was because of the screwdriver he was drinking. This room smells like eau de exchange teacher. And Joy. She bathed in vanilla, always vanilla. Candles, lotion, perfume. The combination is toxic.
He cracked a window and considered tossing the Post-it into the night. He shoved it into his pocket instead before gathering the pillows and bedding carefully, rolling it all off the bed and onto the floor.
Burn them or wash them? Wash them, then burn them? Joy picked out the comforter and the oversized pillows, but I paid for them. Yeah, I’m paying for it, all right. Michael warned me not to date a younger woman. He warned me not to hook up with a woman who smiled at me while cursing in a language I didn’t completely understand. Joy taught me a great deal of Spanish, but I have enough trouble with English. “She’ll cost you in the end, my friend,” Michael had said. “There’s something about her eyes. She has crazy eyes, Matthew. They don’t ever quite focus. Never trust a woman with crazy, unfocused eyes.”
I hate when Michael’s right, but then again, Michael’s been right about nearly everything since we skated through NYU law and survived six years together at Schwartz, Yevgeny, and Ginsberg, where he’s still cranking out billable hours and suing the world. Michael owns a walk-in Sub-Zero refrigerator while I have a completely empty, blood-red, 1950s Philco V-handle refrigerator.
And a package of microwave popcorn.
With no microwave to cook it in.
He stared at the bedroom floor, the hardwood scuffed and bruised, and for the first time he missed Joy’s ratty slippers, slippers he tripped over nearly every night getting into and out of bed.
I can’t use this bedding again unless I get it cleaned at Giant Laundry Mat, but they might lose it all. They already lost four of my shirts. “Call three-one-one,” the counter guy said. Having to call a number to report shirts missing—what is this country coming to?
Matthew sighed.
Then I must burn it all. Where do you burn your soiled bedding without calling attention to yourself in Williamsburg? I could wait until the Knicks, Mets, Nets, or Jets win a championship and burn it out on South Third in the eventual “victory riot,” but then I’d probably be stuck with it all for a long time. I could throw it off the Williamsburg Bridge, but it would probably wash downstream to the Statue of Liberty, where the entire world would see my bedding on CNN as Homeland Security checked the pillows for bombs using one of those robots.
He tried to remember Joy’s last words to him that morning. Was it “This isn’t working out, Matthew”? Or “I’m going to work out, Matthew”? It might have been “I’ll give you a workout when you get home.”
He had been hoping for the last one. Joy was good at working him out.
He looked again at the mound of sheets, pillows, and comforter.
And, evidently, she was good at working out Carlo, too.
What a mess! This kind of thing only happens in bad French movies where I would be lighting up a cigarette, smiling some enigmatic smile while looking out the window, and opening a bottle of wine right about now. I could be throwing things—like the pillows—but I don’t want to touch them ever again.
He sighed again.
Joy could have said, “Matthew, I think we should see other people,” that reasonably mature though trite and trusted way to break up with someone without saying the actual words. I didn’t see other people. I only saw Joy. I thought Joy was The One. I thought we were on the same page. I thought we were two hearts beating as one. I thought . . .
I thought wrong.
Maybe I wasn’t thinking at all.
We were together an entire year, the last six months here in this claustrophobic apartment, and I didn’t even look—
Okay, there was this waitress once who had a round, firm booty at Bar Celona, and Joy caught me staring and didn’t speak to me for the rest of the evening, but—
He looked again at the heap of bedding on the floor. So while I wasn’t seeing other people, Joy was on the prowl. And what do I see now as a result? I see soiled bedding crawling with Carlo’s and Joy’s DNA.
I also see my immediate future. I have the joy of reliving the last year of a relationship that I took seriously while my only bottle of champagne, the entire contents of my refrigerator, and a bag of pretzels flies off to the Dominican Republic!
He kicked the bedding into the hallway.
A short exchange teacher with chest hair, a thin moustache, and an accent. “I love how tall you are, mi macho Matthew,” Joy had said. “I love how smooth your face is, mi amorcito,” she had said. “I love your accent, mi cariño,” she had said. Joy had even called Matthew quequito, her “little cupcake,” even though he was twice her size.
Hairy. Joy evidently liked hairy, which is ironic. She always told me to shave and “tidy up down there, por favor” and “ooh, there’s a cabello in the sink” and—
He didn’t see the key on the nightstand.
He really didn’t want to touch the nightstand.
He decided that if he did burn the bedding, he would add the nightstand to the fire.
Joy forgot to leave the key. Why waste a line telling me that on the Post-it then?
He dropped to his hands and knees and looked under the bed.
He found the key.
He also found a pair of Victoria’s Secret leopard-print ruffled panties he had bought Joy for Christmas.
That she had been wearing this morning.
He warily tossed the panties into the hallway.
I growled at her this morning, didn’t I? I always growl at her when she wears those. Why else would I buy that particular print? You buy animal print underwear for your girlfriend so you can growl at her.
But if they’re here and she’s on an airplane . . .
I hope she’s cold.
No. They’re flying to the Caribbean.
He stood and leaned lightly on the edge of the bed before easing toward the dresser. I can’t sleep in my own bed until I get a new mattress. It’s a Kluft, and it’s only two years old! I suppose I could flip it—
No.
Spray it with Lysol? Use a bottle of Scrubbing Bubbles? A container of Ajax? A mixture of all three?
What . . . a . . . mess!
He closed his eyes.
What would Jesus do?
He would probably do the laundry, flip the mattress, and forgive the panty-less Joy.
Jesus never had anything like this happen to Him.
No one I know has had this happen to him.
What do I do now?
Besides burning the laundry.
Do I call her? She wouldn’t answer.
Do I call Michael? No. He’ll laugh at me and tell me, “I told you so.”
