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“It is. But in Denise’s defense—much as I hate to defend her—my job left little time for a personal life. She wanted kids, but it always felt like the wrong time to me, and it also felt a little irresponsible. It’s hard to have a pregnant wife waiting for you at home while you’re flinging yourself between the President and someone who wants to do him harm. All I could think of was leaving her a widow with a baby to care for, and I…I just couldn’t.” He squeezes Sunday’s hand and then lets it go, putting both of his hands on top of his head as he turns to look out at the water. “She was right to leave me. She was.”
Sunday says nothing, but she puts a hand on his strong back to let him know that she’s there and that she hears him.
Banks lets his hands fall to his sides, but he doesn't turn to look at Sunday just yet. “She’s married now to a guy who works in D.C. but comes home to the suburbs every night to have dinner with her. They’ve got two little boys and she still has our old dog. She’s on the PTA at the kids’ school, and they take skiing trips every winter as a family. I could have never given her all of that.”
Sunday frowns. “You two keep in touch?” The idea of her keeping in touch with Peter is a foreign one; their girls are grown, and there’s no need.
When Banks gives a hard laugh, Ruby can feel it through the hand that’s still on his back. “No. We don’t. But I know enough people who know how to find out information on pretty much any topic you could imagine, so…it’s not hard to find out what she’s up to.” He grows quiet. “I just wanted to know that she was fine. I’m not hung up on her or anything. It’s been seven years, and honestly, I’m happy for her.”
Sunday smiles as she stands behind him. She can tell that he is, in fact, over his ex-wife, but that there’s a part of him that cares about her, and that he truly just wanted to make sure she was okay.
“There are things we never fully let go of,” Sunday says, “and it’s okay if love is one of them. Can I tell you a story?”
Banks turns to look at her, face open and curious. “Of course. Let’s walk. I want to hear it.”
As they start to walk again, Sunday tells Banks about getting pregnant at seventeen. She tells him the same things she told her girls about the nuns who ran the home, about finding an apartment after giving Benjamin up for adoption, and about getting her two-year degree before meeting Peter. When she’s done, they’re standing on the sand in front of her house, right where Banks caught her floating in the water naked that day after she’d had the infuriating phone call with Peter.
Banks doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but then he reaches out and takes Sunday’s hand. “You’re an incredible woman,” he says, looking into her eyes. The moonlight reflects off the water just feet from where they stand. “I’d ask to kiss you, but I feel like it’s best if this is just a walk home--at least for tonight.”
Sunday takes a step back from him, letting his hand fall away from hers.
He’s not wrong. She has things she needs to do and closure she needs to find before she can opens her heart to someone else, but she can’t lie to herself about the fact that shewantshim to kiss her.
“Thanks for the walk, Henry,” she says, dipping her chin shyly and looking up at him through the hair that blows across her face in the light breeze.
With a last look back at him over her shoulder, Sunday crosses the sand with her shoes in one hand, walks up the stairs, and lets herself into her dark house through the door that leads into the kitchen. She doesn’t turn on the lights, but instead stands at her kitchen sink and watches as Banks turns and starts the walk back to Ruby’s house.
Peter
“Peter Bond, former Vice President,” Peter says as he leans into the mirror in the hotel bathroom, straightening the tie around his neck. “Pleasure to meet you—Peter Bond, former V.P.,” he says, this time winking at his reflection.
He’s just spent the night at a hotel in downtown Miami, and when he walks back out into the bedroom, he knows he’ll find a hungover male model who’s half his age spread out enticingly on the king-sized bed. Peter has a system for finding companionship in every city he goes to, and it never fails: he sends his assistant out to search for the best-looking guy hanging around the hotel bar, one who is clearly waiting for an older man to approach him. Edgar, Peter’s assistant, sighs and shakes his head every time, but he knows what to look for and so he does it, sending the catch of the day up the elevator with strict instructions to keep his cell phone off and to be prepared to be discreet.
“Good morning,” the male model says as Peter emerges from the bathroom in a bespoke navy blue suit, blue-and-white pinstriped shirt, and red tie. “You’re looking like breakfast in that tie,” he says, wrapping the sheet around his narrow waist and sitting up on his knees on the bed with a sexy grin.
How is it that people in their twenties wake up looking like this? Peter thinks, stopping in his tracks to watch this toned, tanned, completely chiseled man go from asleep to fully awake in the blink of an eye. At nearly sixty, it takes Peter an hour, three cups of coffee, and two newspapers before he even feels like speaking to another human.
“Good morning,” Peter says with a crisp nod. He’s forgotten the boy’s name already--not that it matters much. Wordlessly, Peter pulls his wallet from inside his jacket pocket and slides out a few hundred dollar bills. He tosses them on the messy bedding.
The man-boy in his bed looks at the money, appearing crestfallen. “I don’t…you don’t need to…I’m not—“
“It’s fine,” Peter says, waving the money away. “I’m not calling you a prostitute or anything—“
“Sex worker,” the young man says, looking at Peter like he’s teaching him something important. “We refer to them as sex workers now, and there’s no stigma attached. I’m just saying that I’m not one.”
Peter holds up a hand like a stop sign. “Regardless. I’ve been young and hungry, and I could have used a few bucks every once in a while.”
“But, I—“
“I’m late for a meeting,” Peter says brusquely, reaching for the handle of his suitcase. He starts to roll it to the door, but then turns back to the naked man in his bed. “Feel free to get room service if you like. Check-out is at eleven.”
The door closes behind him and Peter rolls his suitcase to the elevator. He heads down to the lobby, where he’s meeting his campaign advisors.
On the ride to the Mayor’s office, Delia and Umberto, who Peter has hand-picked to help guide him as he prepares to run for President in the next election, consult their phones, each other, and talk around Peter non-stop as they plan his day and make decisions about meals, detours, and meetings. But Peter is distracted, thinking of the stranger he's just left in his hotel room.Why has it never bothered him to share the kind of intimacies with strange men that he couldn't even bring himself to share with his wife? It's been years since Sunday has seen Peter walking around in boxer shorts or simply brushing his teeth. Their lives have become so separate that there's almost no overlap between them, and somehow they’ve both accepted this.
"Peter?" Delia is saying his name and looking at him expectantly. By the look on Umberto's face, it's clear that Delia has been talking to Peter as he watches Miami drift by outside the car window. "Are you good with that?"
"Hmm? Sorry," Peter says, clearing his throat and tugging at his necktie, which has suddenly started to strangle him. "I was thinking of something else."
