Page 17 of This Love is Under Construction

“But that’s the practical reason,” I say, surprising even myself. “What about the reason underneath?”

He’s quiet for a long time. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, more honest than I’ve ever heard it.

“They needed me. Not just what I could do—but me. For once.”

The words settle between us like dust, quiet and revealing.

“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice low.

He moves to one of the sawhorses and sits. I follow, flashlight angled between us.

“Growing up, I was the reliable one. The one who didn’t ask for much. Maggie had bigger emotions, louder needs. Dad had the business. Mom had her own battles.” He pauses, folding his hands together. “I learned to solve things without being asked. Without being noticed.”

“The perfect son,” I say gently.

“The invisible one,” he corrects. “I wasn’t a problem, so I got left alone. That became the role.”

I nod, understanding all too well. “So when your dad got sick…”

“Suddenly, I was seen. Really seen. And needed. Not just my labor, but my presence.”

He looks down at his hands—hands that build, fix, steady. “It shouldn’t have meant that much. I was thirty-two. But it did.”

“Because we don’t stop wanting to be seen by the people we love,” I say.

He meets my eyes like I’ve said something true. “Yeah.”

“So you gave up Boston. The firm. Your fiancée.” I say it softly.

“She was already halfway gone,” he says with a shrug that doesn’t hide much. “She wanted the city. Connections. Maple Glen was just her exit strategy.”

“But you loved her.”

“I loved who I thought she was.” His gaze lifts to mine. “Someone who understood that roots mattered. She didn’t. She thought they meant you were stuck.”

That one hits. Because I’ve lived that same fear. I’ve been her.

“I get it,” I say quietly. “Not the leaving-you part—she was an idiot—but the running. I’m good at that.”

“Why?” he asks—not accusing, just asking.

I smile without humor. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

I pull my knees up to my chest. “The easy answer is my parents—split between two different lives, two different sets of rules. I got used to shape-shifting. It felt safer to be flexible than to belong.”

“And the harder answer?” he asks, gently this time.

I stare into the darkness beyond our flashlight beams, finally saying the thing I’ve been avoiding.

“I’m scared,” I admit, voice tight. “Not of commitment itself, but of committing and being left anyway. Of building something real with someone, only to find out they preferred the version of me I was pretending to be.”

The confession sits between us, heavier than the storm outside. It’s more honest than I meant to be—but something about the dark, the thunder, and the feel of Owen’s mouth still lingering on mine has stripped away my usual armor.

“That’s why you’re good at PR,” Owen says. “Creating versions of things people want to see.”

“Exactly. I’ve spent my whole life being what other people needed.

For my dad, the dependable overachiever.

For my mom, the laid-back free spirit. For clients—whoever they wanted to believe in.

” I glance down, picking at a loose thread in my jeans.

“But the longer I did it, the more I lost sight of the real version of me. And when people got close enough to notice the cracks...” I trail off.

“You left,” Owen finishes quietly. “Before they could.”

“Yep.” I try for a smile, but it doesn’t hold. “Not my proudest trait.”

He doesn’t argue. But then he surprises me. “Neither is staying out of obligation when you’ve already outgrown the life you’re in,” he says. “Or convincing yourself you don’t need a home just because everyone else expects you to build theirs.”

It hits harder than I expect—how perfectly our patterns mirror each other in opposite directions.

After a beat, I ask, “Is that why you build birdhouses? Homes for others, instead of one for yourself?”

He blinks at me, caught off guard. Then nods slowly. “Maybe. I started after Veronica left. I needed something small. Manageable. A design I could finish in a weekend.”

“And now you scatter them around town like little anonymous gifts.”

Owen’s lips twitch. “I like making them.”

“And I like making poor real estate decisions while drunk,” I say, shrugging. “We all have our hobbies.”

His laugh is low and genuine, and it wraps around me warmer than any blanket. The tension that had sparked between us earlier has softened, shifting into something less combustible but no less charged.

Outside, the storm begins to ease. Thunder rumbles farther off now, and the rain has mellowed to a steady rhythm. The edges of daylight are starting to filter in through the seams of the tarp-covered windows. Our flashlights are fading too, their beams a little weaker, a little less harsh.

“We should be able to leave soon,” Owen says, watching the window.

“Back to real life,” I say, more to myself than to him.

The weight of what we’ve shared lingers, but the moment—the weird, suspended calm of being stuck here together—is slipping away.

“About what happened,” I start, then hesitate.

“The kiss,” he says, like he’s not going to let me dance around it.

“Yes.” I swallow. “It was probably just... the storm. Close quarters. All the romance-novel tropes kicking in at once.”

“Probably,” he echoes, unreadable.

“So, we’re good?” I ask. “Back to contractor and client? No more... closet detours?”

“If that’s what you want,” he says.

Is it? The question settles in my chest like unfinished business.

I nod anyway. “It’s for the best. We still have a house to finish.”

He nods too. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

The rain thins to a whisper, and pale gray light seeps into the room. The storm has passed.

We never said the kiss was a mistake. We just pretended it didn’t matter.

But as Owen turns away, I catch him—just for a second—touching his lips like he’s trying to hold on to something.

And I wonder which of us is lying more.