Page 1 of Red, White, and You (Merry Little Midlife #3)

The pamphlet sits on my desk, its color scheme playful and bright against the stark monochrome décor of my office.

It’s out of place here, a sore thumb. Which is enough to give me pause even as the advertisement tries to tempt me with images of adults playing—actually playing —in ways I haven’t considered in years.

From canoe races to ropes courses, arts and crafts and campfires…

this adults-only summer camp promises to deliver everything I left behind in my search for wealth and power in a man’s world.

But don’t we all leave those things behind? Everyone stops playing at some age, just as surely as we stop believing in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. It’s normal, natural even.

And yet… the little girl I’ve tucked away inside begs me to go. There’s something so alluring in the concept. Or perhaps they simply have an incredible marketing team.

It’s just one week; I can leave the firm for one week , can’t I?

God knows, I’ve hired only the best. If anyone knows what they’re capable of, it’s me.

I personally trained them to be fierce and in control, both in and out of the courtroom.

Formed them in my image.

Surely, my partners and team can put out any fires that arise while I’m gone .

It’s just one week.

I reach for the flier and slide it toward me, tapping my red fingernail against the bright green trees. Sure, it all looks great. On paper.

But what will the actual experience be like? Fun? Or… exhausting?

Do I want to break nails on ropes courses and get blisters from hiking boots that haven’t been worn in—or even worn? Can I really spare the time away for an outcome I can’t predict? Take a week off on… a gamble?

It’s not a crime to take a vacation. The world won’t end if I unplug for a few days. At least, that’s what the #YOLO crowd is always saying, anyway. Self-care is a necessity, not an option —or some nonsense like that.

Or my favorite guilt-heavy slogan: How can I take care of others if I don’t take care of myself?

Easy. I don’t have any others to care for.

“Problem solved.”

I shake my head. The fact that I’m even having this inner debate is laughable. And now I’m talking to myself. I push the flier away in disgust. It’s not for me.

Relaxation.

Free time.

These are not words in my vocabulary.

I work hard. Hustle even harder.

When given the choice between self-care and companionship or building a law firm that rivals the best in New York, it wasn’t a choice at all. All work and no play might have made Jack Torrance a dull boy, but it made Brielle Donovan-West rich as hell and powerful beyond her wildest dreams .

I make grown men cower in the courtroom, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Self-care is a foolish idea created by influencers and companies trying to push eye creams and cucumber masks.

By women’s magazines who’d love for you to believe you’re doing too much…

while telling you three pages later you’re clearly not doing enough.

Mommy bloggers and marketing teams intent on pitting us against one another, doing their best to convince women that choosing careers over children is somehow unnatural or wrong, while simultaneously calling women who choose children over a career lazy and privileged.

Well, screw that and screw them.

My self-care is this career.

My baby is this law firm.

A week spent in the wilderness, getting eaten by bugs, bears, and God only knows what else? Hard pass.

And yet…

The tug in my chest is hard to ignore, annoying as it is.

I stand and pace the office. Why am I struggling with this decision? It’s beyond simple; I’ve already decided not to go.

But the packed duffel bag beside my desk tells me that, for an hour before bed last night, and somehow still into this morning, I convinced myself I should take off a week from work and go have fun. I even reached out to my assistant and asked her to help me gather and pack what I might need.

A few glasses of pinot noir and I was ready to drop everything and… what, go play ?

“Good grief,” I say under my breath.

Plopping back down into my leather chair, I slide the flier back to me and stare at the colorful image of grown women playing in the mud. Of all the ridiculous notions. Mud ?

There’s a light knock at my door. I look up as Christina opens it and pops her head in before I can even respond, then steps inside, a frown pulling her eyebrows down. “What are you doing here, Brie?”

Pursing my lips, I motion to the paperwork on my desk.

“I thought you left the office hours ago.”

I give her a dramatic eye roll and click the mouse to look like I’m working, not talking myself into—or out of —this trip.

My senior partner huffs. “You’re not talking yourself out of this. Andi spent the whole morning shopping for you.”

Right. Shopping for hiking gear and bug spray, things I will never use again. Our poor executive assistant has been off wasting time and money instead of tending to the responsibilities we pay her to manage.

See? Proof that this whole thing is silly.

“Come on .” I groan as I open the brochure and stab at a picture in the center of the tri-fold. “Can you even picture me on an inflatable water slide in the middle of a lake?”

She tilts her head, pursing her lips as she considers the question, then finally says, “No, but—”

“Exactly my point. I don’t belong in a forest. With trees and dirt and bugs and… people.” I shiver dramatically.

She laughs, but quickly covers her mouth. “When is the last time you took a vacation, Brie?”

“ Vacation , Chris? Really? Vacations are in Mykonos or Mo’orea—”

“You’re going. You know I can handle things while you’re gone.” She crosses her arms. “If you stay, you’ll only offend me and hurt my feelings.”

My eyebrows make a slow ascent up my forehead. “You’d have to have feelings in order for me to hurt them… ”

She flashes a wicked grin and her dark eyes disappear briefly with the movement.

“Touché. But that’s why I’m good at my job.

And why you can absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt, trust me to run things while you’re gone.

” She picks up the duffel bag and holds it out to me. “Come on. It’s time. Chop chop.”

“You’re being rather pushy. Was it you?” I narrow my eyes, watching my partner for any hint that she’s behind this. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

Christina scoffs. “Please. I’d at least have the decency to send you to Mykonos or Mo’orea.”

I laugh, but the sound fades quickly as I realize I’ve risen to my feet and walked around the desk to stand before her. Am I really doing this? I can’t say my curiosity isn’t piqued, try as I might to convince myself otherwise. But I can’t ignore the burning question in my mind.

Make that two burning questions in my mind.

The first: what would it be like to be a kid again?

To play games and… roast marshmallows?

I grimace. Sounds sticky and…. like a stomachache waiting to happen.

So, no marshmallows.

Would I even know how to relax enough to enjoy it all?

Not the s’mores, obviously, but all the other stuff?

I can’t remember the last time I relaxed, in the true sense of the word.

Sure, I have a glass or two of wine after work, curled up in my pajamas on the couch as I scan the latest law journal, but even I have to admit that this unwinding ritual of mine feels more like routine than relaxation at this point.

But this is the life I chose, and I stand by that.

Most days.

Chris clears her throat and I meet her gaze .

She raises her eyebrows.

I shake my head. I’m not going.

There’s just no way.

I won’t enjoy myself.

Corporate America isn’t just a blanket term for the working business class—it’s an all-consuming machine, a lifestyle that sucks you in, devours and controls you, and if you’re not careful, that same machine will chew you up and spit you out.

So I’ve had to be diligent. Serious. Meticulous.

I’ve had to work twice as hard and twice as long as the men in my field to prevent this corporate world from bringing me to my knees.

Now it bows to me , not the other way around.

While my friends were having fun, then having babies, I was working my way up the corporate ladder, and now…

My shoulders rise and fall on a heavy sigh.

Well, now , I’m forty-three years old with no social life, no spouse, and no friends. I left those things behind because our life plans—and our schedules—just didn’t line up. As I built my firm, it became more and more difficult to keep in touch with people outside of colleagues and clients.

Even my marriage to Brady West was over before our five-year anniversary.

Which brings me to the second burning question, and the one that has me reaching for the duffel bag.

If Brady has anything to do with this, I owe it to myself to go.

I sacrificed friendship and love for this corner office that overlooks Manhattan through floor-to-ceiling glass windows, and a custom walk-in closet that takes up a third of my penthouse and houses Jimmy, Christian, and Valentino—the only men who never question me about my long hours or make me feel guilty about wanting a career over, well, literally everything else.

Something tightens in my chest.

Is that longing… or dread?

It’s ridiculous that even a small part of me wants to go to a summer camp for adults. What kind of people will be there? Surely not serious people with careers and aspirations. Who has the time?

“It’s paid for.”

I snort. As if money is the issue here.

“Someone really wants you to do this, Brielle.”

“Someone,” I murmur. “But who?” The niggling at the back of my mind tells me exactly who .

Chris shrugs. “Beats me. A client?”

I cock an eyebrow.

“A secret admirer?”

I scoff. Not likely.

“A rival firm?” Her lips twitch. “Sweet revenge after losing a case against you.”

The envelope arrived a week ago and I’ve considered every option, from my sister to former clients, to a guy I dated briefly a few years ago. But none of the potential senders fit.

None, save for one.

The only one who could make me consider this for even a hiccup of time.

And it’s that tug in my gut, that deep knowing without truly knowing that decided the outcome long before I admitted it to myself. The signs are all there. From the name of the camp to the number of the cabin…

The unmarked envelope, hand-delivered by courier. Inside the envelope was the flier and a small, bright green Post-It note attached to it that read :

Paid in full. Cabin 17.

My favorite number. The day I met my ex-husband.

“You’re doing this, aren’t you?” Chris asks.

Of course I am. It’s so obvious why , but I can’t tell Chris.

She doesn’t even know about my marriage, first of all, and second, I don’t want to speak my assumptions out loud for fear that I’m wrong.

For fear that I’ll go there and he won’t.

For fear that I’ll make this leap and Brady won’t be waiting for me within Cabin 17.

But I have to know—and there’s only one way to find out.

Tightening my fingers around the strap of my duffel, I brace myself for what I’m about to do, then give her one curt nod. “I’ve lost my mind, haven’t I?”

But even as I say that, I know it’s not true. Insanity was leaving Brady West in the first place. Returning to him might be the most sound decision I’ve made in my forty-three years of life.

So, on the off chance that this invite is from my ex-husband, I can’t not go.