Page 2 of This Love is Under Construction

The Luxury Living Charity Auction is exactly what it sounds like: rich people congratulating themselves for caring about the housing crisis while sipping champagne that costs more than most people’s monthly rent.

The irony isn’t lost on me as I navigate Beverly Hills’ most exclusive hotel ballroom—a sea of designer labels and strategic networking disguised as philanthropy.

I spot Diana across the room, holding court with three men in identical navy suits. She catches my eye and gives me the subtle head tilt that means come here and be impressive. I pretend not to see it and make a beeline for the bar instead.

“Champagne, please,” I tell the bartender. “The kind that makes terrible decisions seem reasonable.”

He raises an eyebrow but pours me a flute of something bubbly.

I take a generous sip and pull out the auction catalog, flipping through pages of luxury “experiences” donated by companies looking for tax write-offs.

Weekend getaways at vineyard estates. Private cooking lessons with celebrity chefs.

A yacht cruise with someone who was once on The Bachelor.

“Authentic living at its finest,” I mutter to myself, thinking of this morning’s rejected pitch.

I’m about to close the catalog when a listing on page 17 catches my eye:

LOT #42: TINY HOUSE WITH RENOVATION PACKAGE

Charming 400 sq ft tiny house on wooded lot in Maple Glen, W A

Perfect starter home or creative retreat! This cozy tiny house needs TLC but includes a complete renovation package from local craftsmen.

Property features include:

Private quarter-acre lot with mountain views

Open concept living space

Potential for custom built-ins and expansion

90 minutes from Seattle

Sustainable living at its most authentic!

Starting Bid: $25,000

Donated by Northwest Community Housing Initiative

I stare at the grainy photo of what generously could be called a structure. It’s basically a wooden box with windows, sitting in a clearing surrounded by impossibly tall trees. There’s something weirdly compelling about it—like if a Pinterest board and a tetanus risk had a baby.

“ Sustainable living at its most authentic, ” I read aloud, the irony not lost on me after this morning’s presentation. I think of the bar poster: TINY HOUSE, HUGE FEELINGS.

I drain my champagne and signal for another. The ballroom feels suddenly airless, crowded with people whose entire careers revolve around making fake things seem real.

Like mine.

Like me.

Tyler’s Instagram caption floats back into my head: Finally found my forever home.

The tiny house in the photo doesn’t look like anyone’s forever anything. It looks like a project. A challenge. Something real that can’t be fixed with the right filter or caption.

The auction begins with a “luxury glamping experience” that sells for an obscene amount to a tech CEO who probably thinks camping means no room service. I half-listen while scrolling through my phone, where Tyler’s engagement post has now reached 1,057 likes.

I put my phone away and reach for my third champagne. By the time they get to Lot #42, I’m pleasantly fuzzy around the edges—that particular kind of drunk where terrible ideas feel like destiny calling.

“Next up, ladies and gentlemen, Lot #42, a charming tiny house in Maple Glen, Washington. Includes a complete renovation package from local craftsmen. Starting bid is twenty-five thousand dollars. Do I hear twenty-five?”

I look down at the catalog photo again. Something about that little wooden box in the woods feels like a dare.

“Twenty-five thousand, thank you, madam,” the auctioneer says—and I realize with horror that my hand is in the air.

When did I do that?

It was like watching someone else raise my hand, except that someone is definitely me, and now everyone is looking.

“Do I hear thirty thousand? Thirty thousand from the gentleman on the phone.”

Wait, what? Someone else wants this glorified shed?

“Thirty-five?” The auctioneer looks at me expectantly.

Before I can process what I’m doing, my auction paddle is in the air again. Stop it, hand. We don’t even know where Maple Glen is.

“Thirty-five from the lady in the sequin jacket. Forty from our phone bidder.”

I glance down at my jacket—a ridiculous silver thing I bought for networking events because Diana once said I needed more “presence.” The champagne bubbles tickle my nose, and suddenly I’m furious that some faceless person on the phone thinks they can outbid me.

For what? A tiny box in the woods I didn’t even want five minutes ago?

“Forty-five,” I hear myself say, paddle raised high.

“Fifty,” counters Phone Person immediately.

The room has gone quiet, attention shifting between me and the auctioneer’s assistant who’s handling the phone bidder. I should stop. This is insane. I live in LA. I work in PR. I don’t even own a hammer.

You don’t have a job either, if Diana’s “restructuring” text means what you think it means.

“Fifty-five,” I say, my voice steadier than it has any right to be.

There’s a pause. The auctioneer leans toward his assistant, listening to the phone bidder’s response.

“Sixty thousand from our phone bidder.”

Something competitive ignites in my chest. Who is this person? Why do they want my tiny disaster house?

Because somehow—between the second and third glass of champagne—it has become mine.

“Sixty-five,” I counter, the room now watching with the rapt attention usually reserved for car accidents.

Another pause. Longer this time.

“Seventy thousand from the phone bidder.”

I feel a hand on my arm and turn to find Abby, who has apparently materialized from nowhere.

“Penny, what are you doing?” she hisses. “You hate camping!”

“It’s not camping, it’s real estate,” I whisper back with the conviction of the extremely champagne-confident. “An investment.”

“In Washington ?”

“Seventy-five thousand,” I call out before I can second-guess myself.

The auctioneer’s assistant listens to the phone, then gives a subtle shake of the head.

“Seventy-five thousand going once…”

My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.

“Going twice…”

The auctioneer pauses dramatically, scanning the room for last-minute bids. His eyes land on me, and I feel a sudden, bizarre urge to explain myself.

“My love life is under construction,” I blurt out, way too loudly. “Might as well make my house match!”

A ripple of laughter moves through the room. The auctioneer’s lips twitch.

“SOLD! To the woman in the sequin jacket for seventy-five thousand dollars!”

The gavel comes down with a crack that sounds suspiciously like the universe laughing at me.

The next hour passes in a blur. There’s paperwork— so much paperwork—and a very patient auction coordinator named Marcus who keeps saying things like “non-refundable deposit” and “as-is condition” while I nod like I understand what I’ve just done.

“The renovation package is quite valuable,” Marcus says, sliding another form toward me. “Carver & Sons is one of the most respected contractors in Maple Glen. They’ve agreed to provide labor at cost as part of the donation.”

“Carver & Sons,” I repeat, the name not registering through my champagne haze. “That’s... nice of them.”

“You’ll want to contact them directly to schedule your assessment. The house needs significant work before it’s habitable.”

“Habitable,” I echo. A word that hadn’t occurred to me until this exact moment. “Right.”

Abby hovers nearby, oscillating between horrified fascination and full damage control.

“Can she back out tomorrow when she’s sober?” she asks Marcus.

He smiles apologetically. “All sales are final. It’s a charity auction.”

“It’s fine,” I say, signing another form with a flourish. “It’s an adventure.”

“It’s a midlife crisis, ” Abby mutters.

“I’m thirty-one!”

“Early-onset midlife crisis.”

Marcus clears his throat. “Ms. Winslow, this is the deed transfer. It will be processed tomorrow, and you’ll be the official owner of—” he checks his papers, “—Lot 27, Pinecrest Road, Maple Glen, Washington.”

I sign with a signature that looks like it belongs to a drunk person, which feels appropriate.

“Congratulations,” Marcus says, handing me a folder of papers. “You’re a homeowner.”

The word lands like a brick. Homeowner. Me. Penny Winslow. Professional chameleon. Emotional nomad.

“I need another drink,” I tell Abby.

“You really, really don’t.”

The next morning, I wake up with three things: a hangover from hell, a deed to a house I’ve never seen, and the sinking feeling that I’d just blown up my entire life with one raised auction paddle.

My phone shows 27 missed calls from Abby, 3 texts from my mother (unrelated to my crisis—just her usual stream-of-consciousness updates about her crystal collection), and an email from Diana with the subject line: Restructuring Update: Your Position.

I open that one first, because apparently I enjoy pain.

Penny,

As discussed, the agency is moving in a more streamlined direction. While your creative contributions have been valued, we’ve decided to eliminate your position effective immediately. Your final paycheck and severance details will be processed by HR.

I’m sure you’ll land on your feet.

Best,

Diana

I stare at my phone, the hangover headache pulsing behind my eyes in perfect rhythm with my mounting panic. Fired. I’ve been fired. Via email. After five years.

With robotic movements, I open my banking app. The non-refundable deposit from last night has already cleared—a $15,000 chunk bitten out of my savings. The remaining $60,000 will process within three business days, according to the paperwork.

That’s... most of my savings. The money I’ve been squirreling away for some nebulous “someday” that never had a concrete shape—until apparently last night, when it took the form of a tiny house in a town I’ve never heard of.

I switch to Google, typing with shaky fingers: Maple Glen Washington.

The results load: Maple Glen, Washington: Historic logging town turned artisan community. Population 2,943. Known for its craftsman architecture, annual Maple Festival, and proximity to Olympic National Forest.

I click on Images and see a quaint main street with mountains in the background. A town square with an actual gazebo. A diner called The Griddle with a neon sign shaped like a pancake.

It looks like the kind of place where everyone knows everyone else’s business.

Where city people like me are probably viewed as invasive species.

I switch back to my email, where another notification has appeared—this one from the Northwest Community Housing Initiative, welcoming me as the new owner of the property and providing contact information for Carver & Sons Contracting.

I drop my phone onto the bed and press the heels of my hands against my eyes.

I’ve been fired. I’ve spent most of my savings on a house I’ve never seen. In a town I’ve never been to. That probably doesn’t have a single decent espresso machine within city limits.

“What have I done?” I whisper to my empty, perfect apartment with its fake plants and absence of personal photos.

My phone buzzes again. Abby.

Are you alive? Call me when you’re done panicking. I’ve been researching Maple Glen. It’s actually kind of cute in a Stars Hollow meets Twin Peaks way. Also, I found the contractor on Instagram. You’re going to want to see this.

I’m about to call her when another email notification appears—this one from HR, with severance details. It’s not terrible money, but it’s not enough to recoup what I’ve just spent on a whim and wounded pride.

I drop back onto my pillows, staring at the ceiling.