The Match, page 8
A male security guard looked at Wilde as though he’d been phlegmed out of a vagrant’s throat. “Food deliveries are in the back.”
Wilde held up his empty hands. “Do you see me carrying food?”
A well-dressed woman who’d been behind the front desk came out and said, “May I help you?”
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Apartment seventy-eight, please.”
The receptionist shared a knowing glance with the security guard.
“Your name?”
“WW.”
“Pardon?”
“Tell them it’s WW.”
She flicked another look at the guard. Wilde tried to read their expressions. A building like this would have tight security. That was hardly a surprise. Even if he somehow got past this guard, there were two others by the elevators. Their expressions and mannerisms seemed born of something more akin to weariness and resignation than alarm or worry. It was as though they had been here before, played this role repeatedly, and were just going through the motions.
The receptionist went back to the desk and picked up the phone. She held the receiver to her ear for maybe a minute and said nothing. Then she came back over and said, “No one is home.”
“That’s odd. PB told me to come over.”
Both the guard and receptionist said nothing.
“PB is my cousin,” Wilde tried.
“Uh-huh,” the guard said, as though he’d heard the same thing a hundred times before. “Aren’t you a little old for this?”
“For what?”
The receptionist said, “Frank.”
Frank the Guard shook his head. “Perhaps it’s time you left, uh”—small eye roll—“WW.”
“Can I leave him a message?” Wilde asked.
“Who?”
“PB.”
They both stared at him.
“You realize,” the receptionist said, “we can neither confirm nor deny who lives in this building.”
He tried to read their faces. Something odd was up.
“So can I leave a note or not?”
Wilde was not sure what he would write. The simple answer was to explain that he was the WW from the DNA website and put one of the untraceable phone numbers. But did he want to do that? Did he want to put himself on the radar like that? Now that he thought about it, what was he doing here? He didn’t know PB. He wasn’t responsible for him. Wilde had spent his entire life just fine not knowing all the answers to the mystery of who he was.
What was he doing here?
“Of course,” the receptionist said and fetched a pen and paper. “May I see an ID please.”
He had one under the alias of Jonathan Carlson, but that would just lead to questions about WW and his being a cousin, and really, what was the point? Did he want to kill a perfectly good alias for this?
He did not.
“I’ll try his cell later,” Wilde said.
“Yeah,” Frank said, “you do that.”
Wilde headed west on Central Park South. Some might think he would be uncomfortable on the streets of Manhattan, the so-called Boy from the Woods, but it was actually the opposite. He loved New York City. He loved the streets, the sounds, the lights, the life. Was that a contradiction? Perhaps. Or perhaps it was the change that won him over. Perhaps, in the same way you can’t have an up without a down or a dark without a light, you couldn’t appreciate the rural without the urban. Perhaps it was because this city, crowded and massive as it might be, left you alone, let you stroll and observe in solitude while surrounded by throngs.
Perhaps Wilde needed to shut down the philosophizing and grab a cup of coffee and a chocolate croissant at the Maison Kayser on Columbus Circle.
He stopped at an ATM on the way and picked up his daily max of eight hundred dollars. He had a plan of sorts: Wait for one of the employees, like the security guard or the receptionist, to get off work and bribe them for information on the occupant of the apartment. Did he think it would work? He did not. The guard seemed more likely to go for the bribe than the receptionist, but that could be sexism talking.
He crossed to the park side of the street and set up near the stone wall where he could keep a view for exiting employees. He drank his coffee. It was fantastic. He took a bite out of the chocolate croissant and wondered why he didn’t leave the woods more often. He wondered what PB had wanted, what had made PB so desperate, what had led a man who lives in this gleaming tower to reach out to a total stranger, even if that stranger shared some DNA.
Wilde had been standing there for an hour when his phone rang.
It was Laila.
He picked up. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
There was silence.
“Matthew is gone for the night,” she said.
“I know.”
“Wilde?”
“Yes, Laila?”
“When you’re done with whatever you’re doing, come over.”
He didn’t have to be told twice.
* * *
When they were spent, Wilde fell into the deepest of sleeps. He woke a little before six a.m. Laila slept next to him. He watched her for a few moments, then he rolled onto his back, put his hands behind his head, stared at the ceiling. Laila liked luxuriant white bedsheets with an infinite thread count. The expense seemed obscene, but there were times, like right now, when Wilde got it.
Laila rolled and rested her hand on his chest. They were both naked.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
Laila moved in closer. He pulled her tight.
“So,” she said, “Costa Rica.”
“What about it?”
“It didn’t work out?”
“It worked out,” Wilde said. “It just didn’t last.”
Wilde loved her. Laila loved him. They’d tried to be more domestic in the beginning. It hadn’t worked. That was his fault. Some blamed the ghost of David—that had been there initially, sure—or fear of commitment. It wasn’t that. Not really. Wilde wasn’t built for what most would consider a normal relationship. Laila needed more. The cycle went like this: Laila would start a new relationship with some guy. Wilde would leave her be and wish the relationship well. He wanted her happy. But the relationship would eventually peter out, not because Laila held some kind of candle for Wilde but because she still couldn’t get over the death of her soulmate David. All other relationships came up short. So Laila would break up with the guy and then she’d get lonely, and there, alone in the woods waiting, was safe, convenient, can’t-commit Wilde.
Rinse, repeat.
Wilde had given the “normal relationship” mode one last try in Costa Rica with another woman and her daughter. It had gone surprisingly well, this domesticity, until it didn’t. All relationships die, he rationalized. His died faster, that’s all.
“What time is it?” Laila asked.
“It’s almost six.”
“I doubt Matthew will be home before noon.”
“But I should get going anyway.”
“Yes.”
Part of him wanted to ask about Darryl; most of him did not. He slipped out of the luxuriant silk sheets. He could feel her eyes on him as he padded for the shower. Being Mr. Eco-Living was all fine and good, but there were few luxuries he enjoyed as much as the strong water pressure and seemingly endless hot water of Laila’s shower. He hoped that she would join him, but that didn’t happen. When he got out, Laila was sitting on the edge of the bed in a robe.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.” Then: “I love you, Wilde.”
“I love you too, Laila.”
“Was I part of the reason you went to Costa Rica?”
He had never lied to her. “Part, yes.”
“For my sake? Or your sake?”
“Yes.”
Laila smiled. “You stayed with her a long time.”
“With them,” Wilde corrected. “Yes.”
“It should all be simpler, shouldn’t it?”
Wilde slipped into his clothes. He sat next to her on the bed and tied his sneakers. The silence was comfortable. There was more to say, but it could wait. He rose. She rose. They held on to each other for a long time. There was a lot of history here. David was in the room too. He had always been. Neither denied it, but neither minded his presence anymore. Their sleeping together had stopped feeling like a betrayal years ago.
Wilde didn’t say he would call. He didn’t say she should either. They both understood the situation. The next move would be up to her.
Wilde headed downstairs alone and crossed the family room. When he pushed open the kitchen door, he was surprised to see Matthew. He was sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal.
Matthew glared at Wilde. “Looks like it runs in the family.”
“What?”
“Sleeping around, cheating, whatever.”
Wilde did not reply to that. His mother would explain or not explain as she saw fit. It wasn’t his place. He started for the back door. “I’ll see you around.”
“Don’t you want to know what I mean by ‘runs in the family’?”
“If you want to tell me.”
“It’s simple,” Matthew said. “I know who PB is.”
Chapter
Nine
Wilde sat next to him. Matthew kept his eyes on the cold cereal in front of him.
“I thought you and Mom were done.”
Wilde said nothing.
“I know you used to stay over. You don’t think I’d hear you sneak out?”
“I’m not going to talk about this with you,” Wilde said.
“Then maybe I don’t want to talk about PB.”
Wilde remained silent. He pulled over the box of cereal and emptied some into his palm. He ate a few pieces while he waited for Matthew to stop giving him the sullen.
“She’s involved with someone right now,” Matthew said. “I told you that.”
“I’m not going to talk about this with you.”
“Why the hell not? I’m not a kid anymore.”
“You’re acting like one.”
“Hey, I’m not the one sneaking out of the house at six in the morning.”
Matthew took a spoonful of cereal and jammed it in his mouth with ferocity.
Wilde said, “What did you mean by ‘it runs in the family’?”
“You and PB.”
“What about us?”
“Do you ever watch reality TV?”
Wilde kept his expression blank.
“Right,” Matthew said. “Dumb question. But you’ve heard of it, right? Shows like The Bachelor and Survivor?”
Wilde continued to stare.
“PB’s real name is Peter Bennett. He won a big reality show.”
“Won?”
“Yes.”
“Like a game show?”
“Not exactly. I mean this isn’t Jeopardy! Have you heard of Love Is a Battlefield?”
“Sure,” Wilde said. “Pat Benatar.”
“Who?”
“She sang the song.”
“What song? Love Is a Battlefield is a reality show.”
“You win a show?”
“Of course. Sheesh, Wilde, where have you been? It’s kind of like a contest. The show starts out with three women and twenty-one men all vying to find true love. But it’s a hard road to get there. Fierce, the host always says. Love is like a war. Guess where they host it?”
“On a battlefield?” Wilde replied with his tongue firmly planted in his cheek.
“Right.”
“You’re serious?”
Matthew nodded. “In the end, there is only one woman who selects one man. Destined for each other. They’re the only two standing. They get engaged right then and there. In the finale.”
“On a battlefield?”
“Yes. Last season it was at Gettysburg.”
“And this relative of mine, PB—”
“Peter Bennett.”
“Right. He won?”
“He and Jenn Cassidy, his true love.”
“Jenn?”
“Right.”
Wilde said, “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“What?”
“Peter Bennett and Jenn,” Wilde said. “Is that what PB&J stands for?”
“Clever, right?”
Wilde shook his head. “Maybe I don’t want to meet him.”
That made Matthew laugh. “They’re pretty famous. Or they were. This was like a year or two ago.”
“When he won this show?”
“Yes.”
“I assume PB&J are no longer together,” Wilde said.
“Why do you assume that?”
“Because One, I imagine—and this could just be me—that this probably isn’t a great way to meet your lifelong soulmate. On TV during a contest.”
“You’re an expert on relationships now?”
“Fair,” Wilde said again. “Harsh but fair.”
“And what’s Two?”
“Two, you got mad at me and said it ‘runs in the family.’ So I assume PB—Peanut Butter or whatever—cheated on this Jenn.”
“You’re good,” Matthew said.
“How did you learn all this?” Wilde asked.
“I’ve seen an episode or two, but Sutton and her sorority sisters watch religiously. Before every episode, they down edibles and watch and laugh their asses off.”
“So where is he now?”
“Peter Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the thing. No one knows. He’s disappeared.”
The kitchen door opened. Laila entered wearing a terry cloth robe and a frown.
“Damn,” Laila said. “I thought I heard voices.”
The two men looked at her. Matthew broke the silence.
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
Laila turned her gaze on him. “Do I answer to you now?”
“Maybe you should.”
“No, I’ll continue to be the mother, you continue to be the son.”
“You broke up with Darryl?”
Laila flicked a glance at Wilde, then back to Matthew. “What are you doing home anyway? I thought you were spending the night at Sutton’s.”
“Nice deflection, Mom.”
“I don’t need to deflect. I’m the mother.”
“Well, my plan was to stay at Sutton’s, but I needed to tell Wilde something. So I came home to get the car keys and I heard noises upstairs.”
Silence.
Laila gave Wilde a look that made his next move obvious.
Wilde rose and started for the door. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
Without so much as a backward glance, Wilde headed out the back door, closed his eyes, and sucked in a deep breath. He wondered for a moment or two about the fallout of last night. He wondered what Laila had wanted, why she had called him, where she would go from here. It might be smart for him to vanish again, to not complicate her life, but thinking like that was insulting to Laila. She wasn’t a wallflower. She could figure out what she wanted or needed without him playing savior.
When Wilde hit the edge of the woods, he called Rola. It was early, but he figured that she’d be up or have her phone off. She answered on the first ring. He could hear the cacophony of morning breakfast with five kids in the background.
“What’s up?” Rola asked.
He filled her in on what Matthew had told him about Peter Bennett.
“When you say he’s missing,” she began.
“I don’t know. I need to do some research too.”
“Well, we have his name now. That should be enough. I’ll run his credit cards, phone bills, the usual. I’m sure it won’t be that hard to track him down.”
“Okay.”
“We also got a new guy at CRAW named Tony, who is good at family tree stuff.”
“Why would a security firm need ‘family tree stuff’?”
“You think you’re the only person looking for a biological parent?”
“Kids from closed adoptions?”
“Less and less. What happens is, a lot of people sign up for one of the DNA sites, mostly for the fun of it. To learn their ancestry or whatever. Ends up, they learn that their father—mostly it’s the father, though it can be the mother or both parents—isn’t really their father. Blows families apart.”
“I can imagine.”
“A lot of times, the father doesn’t even know. He thought the kid was his and he raised them and now when the kid is grown up—twenty, thirty, forty years old—he finds out his wife slept with someone else and his whole life is a lie.”
“That must get unpleasant.”
“You have no idea. Anyway, I’ll get Tony to start working up a genealogical breakdown on Peter Bennett. Someone on it may connect to you.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll call you back when I have something,” she said before disconnecting.
Wilde retrieved his charged laptop from the Ecocapsule and found a spot two miles away where he could hook up to the internet without any chance of being tracked. He Googled “Peter Bennett” and “PB&J.” The sheer amount of hits overwhelmed him. Love Is a Battlefield had fathered thousands if not millions of fan pages, social media hits, podcasts, Reddit boards, whatever.
Peter Bennett.
Wilde stared at a few of the many, many images online of his cousin’s face. Did Wilde see some resemblance between his own face and Bennett’s? He did. Or he thought he did. It could be projection or want, but the darker skin tone, the hooded eyes, the shape of the mouth…something was there. Peter Bennett’s Instagram had 2.8 million followers. Wilde assumed that was a lot. There were over three thousand posts. Wilde scanned through them. Most featured a smiling Peter Bennett with a glowing Jenn Cassidy, the photographs’ composition signaling that these two were in love and rich and, for many, probably crossed the line between aspirational and envy-inducing. Wilde clicked on Jenn Cassidy’s profile link and saw that she had 6.3 million followers.
Interesting. Do women reality stars just have more fans?
He headed back to Peter Bennett’s page for a deeper dive. Bennett’s profile image featured him shirtless. His chest was waxed smooth. His stomach had the kind of chiseled six-pack that screamed show (as opposed to strength) muscles. For a couple of years, Peter Bennett had posted at least one photograph a day—him and Jenn on vacation in the Maldives, attending openings and premieres, trying on designer clothes, making extravagant meals, working out, dining in fancy restaurants, dancing in the clubs. But the posts had slowed down over the last year or so, petering out until the final one, four months ago, was a view of a large cliff with a cascading waterfall. The location was listed as the Adiona Cliffs in French Polynesia. The caption read:
