Page 12 of This Love is Under Construction
The thing about social media success is that it feels simultaneously like validation and fraud. Like you’ve somehow tricked people into caring about your life while also feeling pathetically grateful they bothered to look.
“What do we think, Finn?” I ask Owen’s dog, who has taken to showing up with me even on days when Owen is meeting with suppliers. “Is influencer a natural career progression from unemployed PR strategist who bought a disaster house while drunk, or am I having a quarter-life crisis?”
Finn, sprawled beside me in a patch of sunlight, thumps his tail noncommittally.
I scroll through the comments on yesterday’s post—a time-lapse of Owen and me (well, mostly Owen) installing the new support beams that will keep the house from eventually sliding down the hill during heavy rain.
@TinyHomeRevolution: The way you’re documenting the foundation rebuild is SO helpful! Most renovation accounts skip straight to the pretty stuff.
@DIYDisasterQueen: Living vicariously through your journey! My husband won’t let me near power tools after The Incident We Don’t Discuss.
@ReclaimedLifestyle: Have you considered using reclaimed timber for those support beams? We have some gorgeous salvaged old-growth Douglas fir that would be perfect. DM for collaboration opportunity!
I pause at that last one, rereading it twice. A collaboration offer? From an actual company with over 200K followers? I click through to their profile—a legitimate reclaimed materials supplier specializing in renovation projects.
“Holy shit,” I whisper to Finn, who lifts his head at my tone. “Someone wants to sponsor content. Like, real sponsorship. Not just my mother asking when I’m going to get a real job again. ”
I snap a quick selfie with Finn, both of us surrounded by construction dust and morning light, and type out a new post:
Morning check-in from renovation central, where the foundation is finally stable enough to not immediately collapse if you sneeze too aggressively! Small victories, people.
Also, surreal moment: just hit almost 5K followers and got my first potential sponsorship inquiry? Turns out documenting a catastrophically bad decision in excruciating detail resonates with people. Who knew?
#ThisLoveIsUnderConstruction #TinyHouseHugeFeelings #SponsoredContentOrJustDelusion
I hit post and immediately text Abby:
EMERGENCY: A company with actual products and followers just asked about a collaboration on my renovation account. Is this real life?? Do I respond professionally or play it cool? DO I EVEN REMEMBER HOW TO BE PROFESSIONAL ?
Her response comes seconds later:
OMG YES!!! This is the universe validating your terrible life choices. Respond like the PR goddess you are.
Also, does Lumber Owen know you’re getting famous off his forearms?
CARPENTER Owen doesn’t follow social media. And I very specifically don’t post identifying photos of him per his request. But his dog is becoming quite the star.
Smart. Keep the dog in the spotlight, seduce the owner with your viral fame. Classic strategy.
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling.
There is no seduction strategy. Rule #4, remember?
Rules are for people who don’t have 5K followers and sponsorship offers. Just saying.
I put my phone down and stand, stretching muscles that have developed a whole new vocabulary of aches since I started this renovation.
Two weeks ago, I could barely tell a hammer from a screwdriver.
Now I have calluses forming on my palms and can identify at least seven different types of saws by sound alone.
Progress, however small, feels good. The foundation work has been brutal—days of digging, concrete pouring, beam installation—but watching something solid emerge from chaos is oddly satisfying.
Different from the abstract “wins” of my PR days, where success was measured in engagement metrics and client approval.
Here, success is measured in a house that won’t collapse when you walk across the floor .
Low bar. But we’re clearing it.
I snap a few more progress photos, documenting the new support beams and floor joists from different angles. Owen would be here later to begin installing the subfloor, but I’d come early to capture the morning light that makes even construction debris look somehow poetic.
The crunch of tires on gravel outside interrupts my impromptu photo shoot. I check the time—only 9:15. Too early for Owen, who’d texted that he’d be here around eleven after picking up supplies.
I peer through the window frame (still without actual glass) to see a small blue sedan parking next to my rental car. A woman steps out—dark hair in a messy bun, flannel over jeans, holding a cardboard tray of coffee cups.
Maggie Carver. Owen’s sister.
“Hello?” she calls, navigating the partially rebuilt porch with practiced ease. “Penny? You in there?”
“Coming!” I quickly dust off my hands on my jeans, suddenly aware of how I must look—hair piled haphazardly on top of my head, yesterday’s tank top with suspicious stains, sawdust probably covering every visible inch of me.
Finn beats me to the door, tail wagging enthusiastically as Maggie steps inside.
“There’s my favorite nephew,” she coos, bending down to pet him without spilling the coffee. “Yes, you’re a good boy. Uncle Owen doesn’t deserve you.”
“He’d probably disagree with that assessment,” I say, smiling despite my confusion at her unexpected visit.
Maggie straightens and hands me one of the cups. “Peace offering. Or bribery. Depends how this conversation goes.”
I accept the coffee with a laugh. “That’s exactly what I said to your brother on my first day of demolition. Are ominous coffee offerings a Carver family tradition?”
“Along with emotional constipation and an unhealthy attachment to power tools.” She grins, stepping inside and surveying the work. “Wow, you guys have made progress. Last time I saw this place, it was basically held together by termites holding hands.”
“That’s... disturbingly accurate.” I take a sip—perfectly doctored. “Not that I’m not grateful for the caffeine, but what brings you by? Owen’s not here yet.”
“I know.” Maggie’s grin turns conspiratorial. “That’s kind of the point. I wanted to talk to you without my brother’s brooding presence sucking all the oxygen out of the room.”
“Also disturbingly accurate.” I gesture to the folding chairs near the worktable. “Should I be concerned about this conversation?”
“Not at all.” She settles into a seat. “I’m just curious about the woman who’s apparently broken my brother’s hermit streak. He actually mentioned you. Voluntarily. Without being asked. This is unprecedented.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “He’s mentioned me? What did he say?”
“Nothing scandalous,” she says, clearly disappointed by that fact. “Just that you have ‘unexpectedly good spatial awareness’ and ‘actually listen when corrected,’ which, in Owen-speak, is practically a sonnet.”
“I’m flattered,” I say dryly, though something warm flickers in my chest. “But I think you’re reading too much into professional courtesy.”
“Maybe.” Maggie doesn’t look convinced. “But professional courtesy doesn’t usually involve bringing home-baked muffins to job sites or letting Finn stay with you when he’s not around.”
I blink. “How do you even know about the muffins?”
“Small town,” she says with a shrug. “I was at Marge’s yesterday when you picked them up. And I quote: ‘Owen mentioned he was skipping lunch to finish the support beams, so I thought I’d bring something for the team.’ Team of two, by the way.”
My cheeks flush. “It was just muffins. Not a marriage proposal. ”
“In Owen-language, accepting baked goods is basically third base.” Her eyes sparkle. “But I didn’t come here to tease you. Much. I actually brought something I thought you might want to see.”
She pulls out her phone, flipping through what looks like a photo album. “Owen would absolutely murder me if he knew I was showing you this, so this conversation never happened.”
“Now I’m definitely intrigued.” I scoot my chair closer as she turns the phone toward me.
The first photo shows a much younger Owen—maybe twelve or thirteen—standing proudly beside what appears to be an elaborate treehouse. His face is more open, his smile unguarded in a way I’ve never seen in adult Owen.
“He built that entirely by himself the summer after sixth grade,” Maggie explains. “Dad gave him some basic instruction, but the design? All Owen.”
“It’s amazing,” I say, genuinely impressed. The treehouse has multiple levels, a rope bridge, and what looks like a pulley system for hauling supplies. “He was building things like this at twelve?”
“Owen’s been designing structures since he could hold a pencil.” She swipes to another photo—an even younger Owen surrounded by intricate block constructions. “Mom used to say he was building in his crib instead of napping.”
She keeps swiping: Owen with a model house made of popsicle sticks. Teenage Owen with architectural drawings spread across a kitchen table. College-aged Owen standing beside what looks like a small finished cabin.
“These are incredible,” I murmur, seeing him in a new light. “He wasn’t just building—he was designing. Creating.”
“Exactly.” Maggie’s voice softens. “Everyone in town knows him as the contractor who can fix anything, but they forget he was supposed to be a designer. He was studying architectural design in Boston before…”
She trails off, and I look up. “Before what?”
Maggie sighs and sets the phone down. “Before Dad’s stroke. Three years ago. It was bad—left side paralyzed, speech affected. Owen had just started making a name for himself designing custom tiny homes in Boston. He had a small firm. Was even getting mentioned in magazines.”
“I had no idea,” I say quietly, the puzzle pieces snapping into place. “He gave all that up to come back here?”