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"The courthouse?" Sunday lifts an eyebrow. "Do we have some late night official business to handle?"
The limo slips into a spot at the curb, and the steps leading up to the courthouse loom gray in the night. Streetlights cast a glow on the darkened building, and Banks waits as the driver comes around and opens their door.
"In fact we do," he says, stepping out onto the curb and offering his hand to Sunday, who takes it.
She slides out of the backseat in her long dress, the sequins dancing and catching sparks of light as she lets the fabric fall around her. She's standing there, looking at Banks expectantly, but he turns and walks up a few steps, taking a moment to remember.
This is it: this is the courthouse where he and Denise stood together, her in a white dress, him silent and tongue-tied, unable to come up with the appropriate words to sign off on a marriage that seemed to have ended largely due to his own inability to just simplyspeak.
Sunday is standing at the bottom of the stairs as he stands there on the third step, his eyes on the tall, peaked roof of the stately old building. Banks has his hands in the pockets of his tuxedo pants as he turns around to look down at Sunday, who is gazing at him.
"Henry?" she asks, puzzled. "Is everything okay?"
Banks takes the steps back down slowly. The light of the moon is reflected on the toes of his patent leather dress shoes as he moves to where Sunday is standing, taking both of his hands from his pockets and offering them to her. She places her smooth palms on top of his and he holds them.
"Sunday Bond," Banks says, feeling a catch in his throat. "You are quite a woman."
Surprised, Sunday laughs. "Oh? You pulled over in front of a courthouse to tell me that I'm a lot?"
Banks tips his head to one side, smirking. "Well, youarea lot--I'll give you that--but you are also an incredible, warm, caring person, and I want to make sure that not another minute goes by where I haven't told you that I think you're wonderful."
The joking smile has slipped from Sunday's face, and she suddenly looks vulnerable. She reminds Banks of someone who isn't sure whether she's about to get good news or bad news, and as she holds his hands, he can almost feel her heart rate pick up.
"I know this is strange and formal, and perhaps as old-fashioned as my getting you a corsage," he says, turning over her right hand and glancing at the rose on her wrist, "but I want to officially ask you if you'll be my person."
Sunday's eyes search his face. "Your person?"
Banks nods. "Yes. At our age, it seems silly to ask you to be my girlfriend, and neither of us has even talked about how we feel about...something more permanent," he says, dancing lightly around the wordmarriage, "but I never again want to see your face looking the way it did in the hotel last night when you told me you weren't sure what we are. BecauseI'msure of what we are."
Sunday laughs softly. "What are we?"
"We're two people who care about each other. We're two people who've gone through a lot and lived a lot of life, and now we want to be together and share what we have. I'm a quiet guy who knows how to disarm a lunatic in a crowd and who enjoys watchingGilmore Girlsand drinking a beer."
This makes Sunday laugh louder. "Go on," she says encouragingly.
"And you're a stunning, kind woman with a heart of gold who can navigate any group of people and talk to anyone. You've raised two beautiful children, and you care about your family and about the happiness of the people around you." He pauses, letting all of that sink in. "And I think together we're a couple, Sunday. I think we're a team. You make me a better, stronger man."
"I think you give me too much credit, Henry," she says, her eyes glistening as she looks up at him. The limo is still idling at the curb, the driver standing on the street with his back to them to give them privacy. "You're already strong. And okay, maybe you're the strong, silent type, but I've never felt safer than I do when I'm with you."
"Is that because I can kill an enemy with my bare hands?" he asks with a twinkle in his eye. "Because it's okay if you just love me for my technical skills."
Sunday shakes her head slowly. "No," she says so quietly that it's almost a whisper. "I don't mean safe like that. I mean safe like, when I'm with you, my heart is in your hands, and I know you won't break it. I feel like I can be me, and there's no judgment. I feel safe because you see me at my worst, stumbling around in the morning with crazy hair and no make-up, and you still look at me with the eyes of love."
Banks is watching her. "You're beautiful all the time, Sunday."
She smiles. "That's exactly why I think I'm already your person. And you're mine."
"Then maybe I should take it one step further," Banks says, stepping even closer to her. "I love you, and I don't want to love anyone else."
Sunday visibly holds back a sob. They both know that he's not going to ask her for anything she isn't willing to give yet; after all, she and Peter haven't been divorced that long. But what he's offering is so much more than a ring or a formal, public commitment--it's his heart.
"I love you, Henry, and I don't want to love anyone else, either," Sunday whispers, tears slipping from the corners of her eyes as she gazes up at him, hands still in his.
Banks pulls her into his arms then and bends forward slowly, savoring the moment. When he finally puts his lips on hers and they kiss, it's the long, patient kiss of two people who know how special their love is, and who have no intention of rushing things or trying to fit into some vision of what the world wants them to be.
"You're my person," Banks says again, pulling away from the kiss just enough that a sliver of moonlight passes between their lips.
"And you're mine," Sunday says, standing on her toes to kiss him again.
And just like that, those courthouse steps cease to be simply a place where Banks and a woman in a white dress formally ended their relationship, and they become the spot where Banks and a woman in a red dress started something new, something beautiful, something wonderful.
