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Carmen stops short, her red curls bouncing on top of her head. "Mrs. Bond," she says, sounding a touch disappointed. "I'm so glad you're here!"
Sunday leaves Banks and walks over to the wall. "I'd love a photo of me and my girls in front of the wall, if you don't mind. Cammy, Olive--can you come over here and get a photo with me?"
Cameron sets her flute of sparkling apple cider on the counter and walks over to her mother, nestling in next to her. Olive joins them and they flank Sunday, all three smiling as Carmen takes several shots of them, and then they all huddle around the phone to look at the photos.
Banks doesn't understand why women do that--look at their photos right after taking them. He never cares what he looks like in pictures, nor do photos of himself make him feel like he needs to lose weight or change his hair. But the amount of times he's seen Sunday and Ruby grimace at pictures of themselves and swear to instantly go on a diet are enough to convince him that women are a different breed when it comes to such things.
"So," Peter Bond says, coming back over to where Banks is standing and offering him a flute of champagne. "I guess these girls didn't account for having a couple of guys on hand, because the only thing on offer is champagne. Would you care for one?"
Banks takes the dainty glass and holds it, feeling like an ogre in a Barbie house. "Thanks," he says gruffly, then sips the bubbly drink as he looks around.
The condo is painted a soft grayish-white, and everything in the kitchen is white marble. The whole thing is open concept with pink suede furniture and gold accents, and in a gold vase above the marble-encased fireplace is a huge bouquet of pink roses. A giant gold mirror rests against one wall, and two of the women are standing in front of it, posing and taking selfies. Banks does not belong here.
"You and Sunday are together then?" Peter asks as he stands next to Banks. They're facing the women instead of each other, and to a casual observer they might be talking sports or cars. But instead, Peter is already grilling Banks about his relationship with Sunday.
"Yep," Banks says succinctly. He'll give Peter Bond as little information as he possibly can, not because he dislikes the man (which he does), but because he knows that's what Sunday would want.
"She's a firecracker." Peter takes a slug of his champagne, seemingly forgetting that it's not beer.
"Sunday is a great lady," Banks says, and even this feels like an abundance of words and potentially too much information.
"Here comes the great lady now," Peter says. He drains the rest of his champagne and walks away, leaving Banks standing there alone as Sunday crosses the room with a frown.
"What did he want?" she whispers loudly, jerking a thumb after Peter. "I hope he wasn't giving you more attitude."
"Eh. A man's gotta let another man know that he's the alpha in the room. Don't worry about it."
Sunday gives a huff of disbelief. "Thealpha? Peter?" She laughs out loud and then takes a glass of champagne from Olive as she passes by with a tray. Several other girls are gathered around Cameron now in front of the green wall, having their photos taken in a variety of poses. Banks is completely confounded by this as a gathering to celebrate the upcoming birth of a new child, but as he watches the women reposition themselves, hand their own phones over to each other to take the same photographs in different configurations, and preen for the lens as they turn their bodies this way and that, he assumes that maybe this behavior is more generational than gender-specific.
"Never been to a baby shower quite like this," Sunday says as an aside, holding her champagne flute in front of her mouth as she speaks so that no one can read her lips. "Where are the party games? The cute little prizes?" Her eyes scan the room. "I know these are Cameron's friends, but it's like none of them have actually been to a party that revolves around someone other than themselves before."
Banks says nothing to this because he has no idea what to say, and before long, Peter migrates back over to them, this time holding a coffee mug.
"Whiskey," he says, though no one has asked him. "I broke down and tapped into my own stash." He pulls back one side of his sport coat, revealing a flask that's resting inside one pocket. "Pour you a few fingers, soldier?" he asks Banks.
It takes Banks everything in him not to correct Peter; he'd made Sergeant in the Marines before leaving to join the Secret Service, but in terms of implied (if not literal) rank, the former Vice President is above him, so Banks chooses to revert to protocol. "No thank you, sir," he says, taking another pointed sip of his champagne. He'd rather be one of the girls at this event than to be lumped in with Peter Bond. "I'll stick with the light stuff."
"You know," Peter says, turning to Sunday and giving her a look that sets Banks on edge. "You and I never had a baby shower like this for either of the girls. Not that I ever had the pleasure of seeing you hugely pregnant." He chuckles at his own joke. "Although some other lucky guy got to knock you up."
Banks's nostrils flare immediately. Although Sunday and Peter have a long history that's none of his business, Peter referring to Sunday's teen pregnancy feels incredibly uncouth, and his alluding to the fact that she never had his biological children also sets Banks’s teeth on edge.
Sunday looks around quickly, and because neither of their daughters are close by and all of the other women are occupied taking photos of the cake, the condo, and each other, she leans in closer to Peter and lowers her voice. Banks hears every word.
"You never got me pregnant, Peter, because I didn't have the equipment that you prefer." Her eyes flash angrily. "We spent thirty years with your eye wandering towards every muscle-bound man in the city, and I cried myself to sleep wondering why my own husband didn't find me attractive."
Peter looks appalled. His eyes cut to Banks and then back at Sunday. "Inappropriate, Sunday."
"Not even," she spits back. "You don't get to say whatever you want to me and expect me to bite my tongue, Peter Bond. Not anymore. So if you ever come up to me again and make some snide remark about me being frigid, or about my having given birth to a baby before I met you, then I swear to god, Iwillclap back."
Peter is staring at her, mug of whiskey suspended in the air as he gapes. "Knock it off, Sun."
"No,youknock it off,” she hisses. “I’m not frigid, nor have I ever been. I have nothing to do with us not having biological children together, and I never want to hear that you've insinuated that to anyone, ever again. Am I being clear?"
Cameron is walking towards her parents, and it's clear from the look on her face that she's already clocked the discontent that's hanging in the air between them. "Mom? Dad?" she asks hesitantly, slowing her pace. "Could I get a photo with both of you?" She looks like a hopeful little girl as she asks, and Banks realizes that she wants nothing more than one good, unsullied memory of her with the two people who raised her as she embarks upon this journey into motherhood. His heart goes out to her.
"Liam is here!" Olive shouts, interrupting the moment. Everyone turns to the front door of the condo, where a tall, blonde man is standing, holding a big bunch of spring flowers in one hand.
The air in the condo shifts again as another man joins the mix. "Cameron's husband," Sunday says to Banks, moving over to his side and standing so close that they're almost touching. "I wonder why none of the other girls brought their guys along, assuming that this is truly a co-ed shower."
