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Sunday is so angry that she wants to throw her phone. She wants to stomp and kick things and throw a framed wedding photo of herself and Peter against a wall and watch it shatter, but of course she no longer has any framed wedding photos of them. Her frustration is so out of control, so massive, that she doesn't even know how to begin to manage it. So instead of doing anything destructive, she looks up and down the beach, sees no one, and pulls her dress over her head, tossing it onto a deck chair. She's standing there in just her lingerie, and without thinking, she steps out of her underwear and unhooks her bra, tossing it on top of the dress.
Without giving it a second thought, Sunday runs straight across the sand to the water, and she doesn't slow down as she begins to splash through the waves, feeling the cool surf as it envelops her naked body. Once she's covered to the waist, she falls into it, using her arms to swim forward as the water cascades over her back and caresses her skin.
She is weightless. She is not Peter Bond's soon-to-be ex-wife. She is not a woman whose older daughter refuses to take her calls. She is not a woman who has secrets that she wants to keep in her past. She is a woman with her whole life ahead of her and the freedom to choose how to live it. She is a woman who owns a house with sand and sky and beach and--
"Ma'am?" a man's voice calls out.
Sunday turns her head in surprise, glancing over one bare shoulder at the water's edge, where Banks, Ruby's Secret Service agent, stands with his hands on his hips and sweat dripping from his hairline.
Oh god.
Sunday is a woman stuck in the ocean with no clothes.
Sunday is naked.
"Hi!" She waves, attempting to sound cheery and unbothered. "Gorgeous day, isn't it?"
Banks frowns into the sun and then looks back at Sunday. "It is. But these are some pretty good-sized waves, and there's a strong rip current right here."
It's Sunday's turn to frown; no one had warned her that she was living on a beach with a massive rip current, and she hasn't been in the water until now, which is amazing to her, given the fact that she's lived there for three months already.
"I'll be fine!" she shouts back, smiling to put him at ease.
"Actually, I'll just hang out here and wait for you to finish your swim, if you don't mind." Banks hooks a thumb over his shoulder at her house. "I can stretch out after my run right there on your porch and be within shouting distance. It would be wrong for me to leave you here alone, Mrs. Bond."
Ignoring the fact that her nakedness is by far her most pressing issue, Sunday feels indignation well up inside of her. "No more 'Mrs. Bond,' please. Or 'ma'am.' I want to be Sunday from this point forward when we see each other, okay?"
Her voice carries across the waves between them. Banks, hands still firmly on hips, nods. "Okay. As you wish."
A smile plays at Sunday's lips as she treads water, feeling the cool fingers of it touching the parts of her that no one has touched in ages. "Thank you," she says. "That's better."
"Then, Sunday, I'll be right there until you're safely out of the water," Banks says, tipping his head at the steps that lead down from her porch to the sand.
Sunday freezes; her legs and arms stop moving and she momentarily dips into the water, getting some in her mouth. She splutters and begins to tread water again.
"Actually, Banks, there's a very small situation happening here that might make you uncomfortable." Sunday attempts to toss her hair the way she might on dry land, trying to give the impression that she hasn't a care in the world. "As it turns out, I'm here in the water...naked. And I have no towel."
The look on Banks's face morphs from one of concern when he hears the words "small situation,” to a look of sheer, unbridled amusement. He smothers a laugh. "You think a naked woman is a situation I'm uncomfortable with?" he calls out, his voice full of mirth.
Sunday rolls her eyes. "Listen, if I come out of this water, you will not be able to un-see that vision, and it's not like anyone's ever going to make me the centerfold of theSports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue."
"Their loss," Banks says with what looks like a wink, but could possibly have just been a grain of sand in his eye.
Sunday stays there, treading water. "Look, I know we're on a first name basis now--at least, you are with me. What’s your first name, anyway? And how do I not already know it?” She frowns as she thinks of the years she’s known Banks but yet somehow still knows nothing about him.
“It’s Henry," he says, still smiling. "But never Hank."
Sunday nearly chokes on water again as she laughs. "Hank Banks? Yeah, that would be terrible. Didn't your parents consider that when they named you?"
Banks shrugs. "Probably not. And most people don't even try it, but I like to shut it down before it gets going."
Sunday eyes his impressively developed upper body, which is once again not covered by a shirt as he takes his run on the beach, and imagines that most people probablydon'tmess with Henry Banks. "Understood," she says, sinking a bit further so that the water is up to her chin. "But I'm still not coming out of the water while you're here."
"Where's your towel?"
Sunday screws up her face like she's in pain. "Actually, I hadn't planned to come into the water...like this. Or at all. So I just tossed my clothes on the deck and ran out here. It was kind of on a whim.” She feels her face redden at the image of Banks walking up onto her deck and seeing the underwear she'd simply kicked off and the bra she'd flung onto the chair. She feels that more explanation might be necessary, so she gives a good kick and pulls herself forward through the water with her arms, coming a few feet closer to him. "I was on a phone call with my husband, and it just...filled me with rage. I didn't know what to do besides break stuff, so I ended up out here. There's no other good explanation for it."
Banks holds up a hand. "Please--I've gone through a divorce. Say no more. Where can I find a towel for you? And may I go inside your house to get it?"
