Page 2 of One Last Summer
This had been the year I swore I’d finally get back up there, workload be damned. I’d even ordered a sleeping bag online from L.L. Bean and then took a nap in it on the couch surrounded by piles of notes I’d taken researching New England breweries. But then the Alewife pitch took over my life, and there was no way I could head off to New Hampshire with it unfinished. So I’d bailed on Pine Lake again this year, certain that my friends would understand why.
I tapped out a crying emoji face to Sam in reply just as Lydia’s text came through.
Not tagged, Lydia wrote. Cute though. Looks like he did it on a swan boat. Want me to screenshot it?
The words registered with shock, like someone holding an ice cube to the back of my neck.
Those ancient red boats, with their beautiful carved swans on each side, circled around a murky pond in the middle of the Public Garden. I’d lived in the city for over a decade and never once ridden them, because, well, who on earth actually did any of the cash-grabby, touristy things in their own city? Surely no New Yorker ever walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. I’d never once been to Paul Revere’s House, and that was, like, less than a mile from my apartment.
But the swan boats had meant something to Charles, who’d grown up just steps away in the South End and had loved riding them as a kid. And so for his thirty-sixth birthday, I’d indulged him, planning a date night that started with a boat ride and ended with a picnic in the park. An emergency meeting at work upended our five p.m. meet-up plans, and I raced over a little after seven with a bottle of wine and a mouthful of apologies. But I was too late—to save our date or our relationship.
“I’ve done some thinking,” Charles had said.
“Huh?” He’d caught me off guard, right in the middle of digging through my tote bag for a tissue to wipe the sweat off my forehead that had accumulated after power-walking ten blocks.
“I don’t know if I’m in love with you anymore.” His delivery was matter-of-fact, like he was reciting data points off a presentation rather than ending our eight years together.
“Because of me missing the fucking swan boats?” I’d yelled back, almost knocking out a nearby goldendoodle with the Pinot Noir in my hand.
“No, it’s not that. It’s not you. You’re the best.” He’d stepped forward and rested both his hands on my shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze as I blinked back in disbelief. “You do everything right. I just don’t think that’s what I want anymore.”
At least after all that, I’d found a tissue.
Sam sent through a broken heart emoji, recentering my thoughts onto camp for a moment. When had I last seen her? She’d been in Boston a few years ago with her now ex-wife, Regan, for a wedding. Maybe then. But I couldn’t remember the last time we’d really talked, besides the occasional text. Our friendship had fallen by the wayside over the years, life’s collateral damage, pushed aside in favor of sticking to the path I’d so meticulously laid out ahead of me. I really owed her a phone call and some dedicated catch-up time, but there was no way to do that now.
Miss you! I typed back, as Amaya let out a high-pitched “wooooo!” and suddenly my attention was back in the room. Drunk Amaya didn’t come out very often, but when she did, she was even more intense than the sober version, which was saying a lot.
“Four Points’ mission is more than just selling products and producing events. It’s about creating a pathway to people’s emotions, and hearts,” Amaya gushed, beaming from above. “But we can’t do this work unless we take care of our own emotions too.”
Amaya’s belief in her own brilliance was more enviable than annoying, but it also meant she rarely backed down once an idea took hold, whether it was a creative brand theme or a company-wide meditation class, which she’d implemented last fall.
This combo of laser focus and uber-confidence was how she’d built Four Points into the kind of company that had won the local marketing trade mag’s Agency of the Year award for three years straight. But it also made her, occasionally, slightly terrifying. Like right now, for example.
“Burnout is real,” she lamented, her tone now boss-serious. “And it not only can destroy us individually, but it can wreck a company’s success if it’s not addressed head-on.”
Someone gently bumped my arm with their shoulder, and I turned to find Lydia squeezed in next to me as Amaya’s voice carried from overhead.
“I know this firsthand, which is why my yearly silent meditation retreat in Sedona is so vital to me as a person, and as your boss.” She beamed down at us, our very own, slightly tipsy motivational speaker. “And so I’m proud to share with you today that we are implementing our new ‘Four Points, Five Days’ micro-sabbatical program, for folks to take breaks when needed. This will be in addition to the four weeks of vacation time everyone already currently gets.”
One of the Mikes/Marks grunted out a “wow,” and there was a smattering of applause from around the room. Someone on the other side of the gathering hollered out, “Slay!” and Amaya beamed.
“Yes.” She nodded proudly. “This does slay.”
Next to me, Lydia pressed a clenched fist to her mouth, trying to suppress a laugh.
“You can ask for a micro-sabbatical for yourself, of course,” Amaya continued, “but this program is unique because your supervisor or your direct report can also suggest you take one. It’s just one way we can look out for each other here.”
Delilah, the designer working with me on the Alewife pitch, hooted excitedly nearby as the room erupted in boisterous, booze-fueled applause. I tried to stay focused, and in the room, but the news about Charles had rattled me, and my thoughts spiraled back in time to our final conversation.
“Clara, look, I know we make sense together, like on paper,” he’d said to me in a steady, patronizing voice. “But come on. There’s no spark between us anymore. There’s nothing sexy about spending most of our time together watching reruns of Friends and occasionally having sex. We’re like roommates. I don’t want to feel like I’m dating my sister, or, like, one of my fraternity brothers.”
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I’d shouted through the foggy lens of tears, so loud a couple pushing a baby in a stroller had fully stopped in their tracks to gawk at us. “Your sister?”
But he had just shrugged and wrapped me in a tight, clinical hug.
“I really want you to be happy, Clara. Like, truly happy. Not just what you think happy should look like.”
He’d said this with a firm nod before wandering off to sleep at his parents’ house, leaving me to stumble home, blotchy-faced and weepy, polishing off that bottle of wine alone.
