One Last Summer

by Kate Spencer

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy; Humorous Fiction

Synopsis

From the cohost of the award-winning and uber-popular Forever35 podcast comes a dreamy, laugh-out-loud summer romance that asks: What do you do when the life you've planned isn't what you've dreamed? 

Release date: June 11, 2024

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

THE TEXT MESSAGES from my assistant, Lydia, came through back-to-back at exactly 7:24 p.m., announced by two beeps chirping from my phone, like baby birds fighting over a worm from their mother.

OMG. Clara!!!

Charles is ENGAGED.

????????? I replied, smashing the question mark key until the tip of my index finger ached. This was the universal text message bat signal for Ex-Boyfriend Panic, and I was now deep in it.

Just the sight of Charles’s name sent my sweat glands immediately into overdrive. It didn’t help that I was already an anxious mess over the disaster on the computer screen in front of me. If there was ever a moment for my drugstore antiperspirant to show off its promise of forty-eight-hour “protection,” this was it.

After waiting through the longest minute of my life, I finally shot up from my desk with an exasperated huff and rocketed out of my little corporate cave, plowing straight into a wall of sensible, pale-blue collared shirts tucked into equally sensible khaki pants. I’d landed behind the sales team, and right smack in the middle of the Summer Friday happy hour I was definitely supposed to be attending.

In the center of it all was Amaya Conrad, our company founder and CEO, dinging the edge of her iPhone against a plastic cup of champagne. She’d never met a toast she didn’t love to give, especially when it was about all the money Four Points was raking in. And this quarter, Four Points’ earnings had “been lit,” according to a recent company-wide email she’d sent.

Lydia had scrunched her nose in horror when she’d read it. According to her, forty-somethings using Gen Z slang was “cringy.” Lucky for me I was only thirty-five, so she cut me some slack when I did the same.

“I’m so thrilled to celebrate our biggest quarter yet!” Amaya shouted through a cupped hand as she simultaneously kicked off her Valentino rock-stud pumps with the gusto only a buzzed person could muster.

She practically tossed her drink to her assistant, Abe, who had taken up his usual spot, hovering dutifully just a few inches off to her side. Then, with a grunt, she pushed herself up to stand on a chair. Stepping onto his pristine white desk, she steadied herself with the edge of his computer screen before grabbing her cup back, chugging whatever was left, and pumping her fists in the air.

Oh, yeah. Definitely drunk.

I glanced down at my text messages—still nothing—and then back at Amaya, who was pontificating about the many ways in which Four Points was “the freaking G.O.A.T. of creative marketing here in Boston. We are the Tom Brady of branding. You could literally call us Tom Branding!” Oh, man. Someone was going to be chasing ibuprofen with Gatorade tomorrow morning.

I gave my phone another impatient glance. “Come on,” I murmured under my breath, which elicited a stern look from… Mark? Mike? Our sales team was made up entirely of straight dudes with M names, and they all seemed to blur together into an amorphous blob of button-down shirts or fleece vests, depending on the season.

Engaged to who? I tapped out as my heart ping-ponged around my chest.

Blocking Charles across the internet had done wonders for my post-breakup mental health. But it had also severely restricted my favorite hobby of late-night internet sleuthing and falling down social media rabbit holes. I had no idea what he’d been up to since he’d unceremoniously dumped me in the middle of the Public Gardens last year with the casual disgust of a person discovering a week-old cup of coffee in their car console and emptying it out in the street.

Not being able to stalk Charles online hadn’t stopped me from obsessively wondering, of course. Crafting elaborate fantasies of my ex miserable and regretting his decision was a skill I’d honed over this past year: Charles, devastated when he couldn’t remember our Netflix password (it’s B@@bs69, which was obviously hilarious but never made him laugh). Charles, restless and grumpy waiting for his drink at the Starbucks counter, crumbling when they called out an order for someone with my name.

None of these concocted tales included Charles falling in love with another human, much less proposing marriage. But it was fine. And I was fine! Totally fine. He was my ex; he could get engaged to whomever he liked.

After all, I was also off doing my own thing. I’d bought a new vacuum this year, one of those futuristic handheld thingies that cost a small fortune but can suck up an entire spilled bag of Dorito crumbs in, like, three seconds flat.

When I hadn’t been self-soothing with late-night internet shopping, I’d been channeling my energy into work, like the looming proposal that was currently causing me acid reflux, for Boston’s very hip, woman-owned brewery, Alewife.

Our pitch—selling them on why we should brand and launch their new Summer Ale—was in exactly two weeks. Current status: a total fucking mess, and my chest tightened at the thought of it, the same kind of heart-racing, jaw-clenching anxiety that had become my constant companion.

I’d be fixing it tonight, all night if I had to.

I was absolutely, completely fine.

Amaya’s voice cut through the din of jumpy thoughts in my head.

“You all are killing it out there.” Her face crumpled ever so slightly, like a parent about to weep at their kid’s high school graduation. “I’m so proud, and so deeply honored to know each and every one of you.”

I clapped along, following the lead of the Mikes and Marks in front of me. My phone buzzed in my hand, setting off a jolt of adrenaline that electrified every muscle in my body.

Finally!

But the new message at the top of my screen wasn’t from Lydia at all.

There, instead, was my oldest camp friend, Sam Cohen; she’d sent a photo of her face—framed by her gorgeous, dark ringlets—peeking out from under a white cap on her head. Her cheeks were rounder, with circles under those familiar, wise eyes, and she was pointing a finger at the logo on her hat, a dark green pine tree, complete with an exaggerated pout.

It was a photo designed to make me feel guilty, and it definitely worked. I’d missed our last five reunions at Pine Lake Camp, and tomorrow our old crew of camp friends was making the annual trek up to the woods of northern New Hampshire without me, yet again.

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.

Now here, almost a year later, my shoulders twitched as the uncomfortable memory echoed through me. Nothing had hurt as much as that comment, not even the breakup itself. Something about it had felt too revealing, like he’d suddenly figured out something about me that I didn’t yet understand.

The next morning I’d marched into the office with swollen eyes and a raging hangover, and informed Amaya that I wanted to take on a heavier workload as project manager, to see if I could gain some experience that could level me up to vice president even. She’d been vaguely alluding to a promotion in the months since, and I’d kept hustling, assuming it was just within reach.

One of the finance bros next to me gave me a friendly elbow jostle, and I popped my head up just in time to see Amaya windmilling her arms as she said with gusto, “—the person who has been here almost as long as I have. Let’s give her a round of applause, shall we?”

I’d completely spaced out, and the roaring applause shook me out of the past and back into the room. I knew instantly who she was talking about, and the eager, curious faces of seventy-five of my colleagues—all frozen in my direction—confirmed it.

She was talking about me.

PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER, Clara! cried the alarm bells going off in my head. It’s happening! She’s about to promote you in front of the entire office.

The realization was so thrilling that my fake smile transformed into something genuine, proud even. I quickly puffed up my chest and tucked a loose strand of hair—the same stick-straight, bark-brown strand that would inevitably fall right in front of my eye in approximately thirty seconds—behind my ear.

All eyes were angled in my direction, and the two most important ones in the room were gazing down at me with such affection that I instantly felt guilty for totally tuning out what she’d been saying before.

“From intern to assistant to almost every other job in between, she’s worked her way up to project manager, where she’s juggling some of our biggest accounts. Clara, we all see how hard you bust your ass here at Four Points. How many of us have left to go home for the night, only to see the lights still on in Clara’s office?”

There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd.

“Girl, you are an example to all of us.” Grabbing her glass back from Abe, Amaya pointed it in my direction as she pressed her other hand against her chest, creasing the creamy silk blouse that looked both entirely effortless and perfectly put together.

“Thank you,” I said with a polite nod. It was an attempt to be humble in front of a crowd, but inside I was full-on glowing. I’d dangled the fantasy of this promotion in front of my own face like a carrot, and it had been the only thing keeping me slogging along in the wake of this bleak, depressing year.

Charles can have his swan boat engagement, I thought. I have this.

“An example,” she drew the words out slowly, seriously, “of burnout.”

“Wait, sorry. What?” My chin practically dropped off my face in shock as I rewound her speech in my head, desperately trying to process exactly what was happening.

“She wants you to take a micro-sabbatical,” Lydia hissed in my ear. “Like a vacation.”

“Clara Millen, your Four Points, Five Days micro-sabbatical starts now,” she said, bending forward, hands on her knees to look at me, as my colleagues laser-beamed their eyes onto my face. “Because you need it more than anyone else here.”

Every drop of moisture exited my mouth until all that was left were dust and some teeth. All the grinding, and late nights, the years I’d spent following her instructions to a T, and the last twelve months of foaming-at-the-mouth devotion to my job and she was…

… diagnosing me with burnout, like she’d run me through some sort of internet quiz? Which, I recalled with a flush of shame, was something I had actually taken a couple of months ago thanks to an Instagram ad and which had, indeed, suggested that I might be kinda fried at work.

“But the Alewife pitch,” was all I managed to squeak out as my hair slid—as predicted—right back into my face.

“Can wait,” she said, chipper. “I want you to focus on you first.”

Landing a major account like Alewife had been on my goal list for years, and I was mere days away from being able to put a giant check mark next to it. What the hell was happening?

“She was supposed to go to New Hampshire this week!” Lydia blurted out next to me, and Amaya’s face lit up.

“Perfect!” she replied with a clap of her hands, tossing her empty cup on the floor below her.

“But I can’t actually take a whole week off right now,” I protested, trying desperately to keep a calm look on my face, even though inside, panic reigned. Sure, the pitch wasn’t in the greatest shape, but I’d get it there. I always did.

Amaya thought for a moment, index finger tapping at her painted lips.

“Clara, tell me, in your own words. How are you feeling? Right now.”

Exhausted. Confused. Like I wanted to cry and throw up at the same time, and then hide in my bed for approximately forty-eight hours.

“Fine,” I countered.

“You know what a synonym for ‘fine’ is?” she asked.

“Good?” I ventured, my voice pitched and hopeful, like a kid desperately guessing on the final word of a spelling bee.

“No, Clara,” she continued. “Fine” is code for terrible. When someone says they’re fine, what they really mean is they’ve been working around the clock on something and getting nowhere but stressed out.”

“Well, yeah.” I let out an uncomfortable laugh, desperate to salvage this conversation. “But that something still needs a lot of work. That’s why I can’t just take time off next week.”

“In order for the pitch to be better, I need you to be better,” she said, and it was clear from her tone that Zen Amaya had been replaced by take-no-prisoners Amaya.

I swallowed hard, willing the tears that were rushing to the corners of my eyes back where they came from.

“Okay,” I said quietly. If I could just keep my face emotionless and steady, then no one would see the mortification that was bubbling up just underneath the surface. But I caught Delilah’s face out of the corner of my eye, and the pity etched across her brow was enough to send my shoulders clenching. I pressed my lips tightly together in a futile attempt to quell the panic that was overtaking me.

“This is going to be so good for you, Clara.” Amaya summoned me toward her with a wave. “Healing, even.”

The Mikes and Marks parted as I awkwardly stepped forward until I was face-to-face with her waist. She bent down and wrapped her arms around me.

“Can’t this wait until after the pitch?” I pleaded, stiffly leaning in to her embrace.

“Clara, we just announced it in front of the entire office,” she said, her voice low. “It’s official.”

Because I wasn’t already humiliated enough, her diamond tennis bracelet snagged in my hair as she pulled away. All I could do was stand there, cheeks flushed, as Abe rushed forward and gingerly yanked us apart.

“See, everyone?” she said, once we were separated. “This is how I want you to support your teams, the people you manage, and your managers. I expect my inbox to be inundated with time-off requests. I can’t wait to hear all about your plans. And now, we celebrate!”

The room exploded in giddy applause, and soon everyone was grouping off into their collective work cliques, Rihanna thumping from a nascent desk speaker somewhere.

I rushed back into my office before someone could corner me in conversation about my newly announced vacation and plopped down in my chair, dumbfounded. My eyes settled on my trusty spiral-bound notebook. Aside from Lydia, this thing was my best friend. I’d spent weeks agonizing over the cover color (sea-foam blue) and paper style (dotted) alone.

The notebook was flipped open to my current scribbled to-do list from hours earlier. The words taunted me with their ignorance of what was to come. This morning I’d titled it “Clara’s Friday To-Do List: Get It Done And Go Home!!!” which now seemed a bit on the nose after Amaya’s proclamation. I plucked my favorite pen off my desk and pressed its round point against the paper with an exasperated, emotional huff.

Directly underneath “Print budget PDF for review,” I drew a small square and wrote, “Have life thrown into a tailspin” next to it, practically carving the words into the paper.

And then I checked it off.

“HEY, BOSS. I thought you might need this.” Lydia hustled into my office clutching a stack of cardboard containers in her arms, tucked under her chin for balance. The savory scent of French fries washed over me like a siren song, and my stomach immediately responded with a greedy growl.

“Here.” She passed me one that was overflowing with crisp, matchstick fries, and a greasy, paper-wrapped burger. “Extra pickles.”

“Hell yes, thank you.” I reached forward eagerly, barely getting the words out before inhaling a handful of fries, so hot they singed the roof of my mouth.

“I hope it’s okay that I yelled out about your New Hampshire trip. I swear I was just trying to help,” she said, offering me an apologetic look as she flopped down on the modern, steel-gray love seat next to my desk. “You looked shook, like you were about to freak out.”

“Oh, I’m not about to freak out,” I said, tearing open a packet of ketchup with my teeth.

“Well, that’s good—”

“I’m already there. I’m in def-con five, the world’s about to explode, and mankind as we know it will be extinct freakout.”

“Oh.” Lydia’s face fell, bright pink lips pursed with worry.

“It’s not your fault, Lyd,” I said through bites. “You didn’t know Amaya was going to make me the poster child for burnout in front of the entire office.”

“Yeah, that was wild.” She wrinkled her nose, giving me a sympathetic look.

“And you know how much stuff we still have left to do!” I smacked at my notepad with the back of my hand to make my point. “We’re so far in the hole on this thing. How am I supposed to fix it if I’m not here? I know for a fact that Amaya secretly checks her email when she’s on that ridiculous silent yoga retreat. She’s so full of shit.”

Lydia rolled her eyes in solidarity. “She has serious main character energy. It’s terrifying. But…”

I raised brows at her, impatient. “But what?”

“But, it’s not the worst idea she’s ever had. I don’t think you’ve taken a full week off since I’ve been here, and I’m going on three years.” She very purposefully avoided my stare and propped her laptop on the edge of my desk, flipping it open to the PowerPoint we’d been working on all week. This morning I’d spent an hour obsessing over a slide featuring an animated pint glass only to delete the entire presentation in a fit of frustrated rage.

“Excuse you.” I reached over and lowered the screen so she couldn’t ignore me. “I went to South Carolina in March.”

“For, like, your great-aunt’s funeral,” she scoffed.

“Yeah, but I totally saw the beach while I was there,” I mumbled, taking another bite of my burger. “And. . .