Page 22 of This Love is Under Construction

There’s a special kind of chaos that emerges when you compress three months of renovation into six weeks. It’s not the slow burn of a typical construction site—it’s renovation on amphetamines. Every task overlapping. Every decision instant. Every mistake a potential derailment.

Two weeks into the accelerated timeline, the house has gone from skeleton to almost-structure.

Windows: installed. Electrical: roughed in.

Plumbing: run. Insulation: tucked into every crevice.

The kind of progress that usually takes months is now crammed into days with the help of caffeine, grit, and panic.

I’m perched on a stepladder, installing recessed lighting while yelling at a delivery driver to bring the drywall inside.

“The drywall goes inside!” I shout over the whir of saws and drills. “Not the porch—it’ll get rained on!”

He gives me a thumbs-up that could mean “got it” or “I’m doing whatever I want.”

From across the room, Owen’s voice slices through the noise like a laser. “Left junction box needs to be two inches higher.”

I glance at the box I just mounted. Then at him. He’s buried in plumbing diagrams, adjusting joists, talking to a subcontractor—and still knows exactly what I’m doing wrong.

“It’s at forty-eight inches,” I call back, brandishing the tape measure. “Per the electrical plan.”

“Plan changed when we adjusted the built-in height. Fifty inches now.”

I bite my tongue and start unscrewing it. Again.

This is our new normal: short instructions, clipped corrections, a thick layer of tension just below the surface.

Tension that has little to do with construction and everything to do with what we’re not talking about.

The kiss during the storm. The morning in the camper. Veronica’s ongoing stay in Maple Glen.

Not that I’m keeping track.

“How’s the window seat coming?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral as I remeasure.

That finally gets his attention. He glances over to the west wall—my window seat, framed and installed, the storage roughed in, the picture window catching the light just right.

“On schedule,” he says. Then, grudging: “The proportions work better than I expected.”

Which, from Owen, is basically a love letter.

“Told you it was worth the square footage,” I say, not hiding my smirk. “Form and function, harmony, etcetera.”

The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile—before his phone rings. He checks the screen, expression shifting. Guarded. Then he steps outside to take the call.

I don’t need to see the name. Veronica’s been “consulting” all week about the Henderson project. Despite him saying no to new jobs, her calls always seem to make it through. Meetings that weren’t supposed to happen... do.

Not that I’m jealous.

That would violate Rule #8.

I go back to the lighting install, but the knot in my stomach keeps tightening. We’re partners on a TV renovation project. Nothing more. Just because we occasionally exchange lingering glances—or kissed once in the middle of a storm—doesn’t mean anything.

That’s the script, anyway.

My phone buzzes with a text from Abby.

Construction update please! How’s the Accelerated Timeline of Doom? More importantly: tension with Lumber Owen—still pretending that kiss never happened??

I respond one-handed while balancing on the ladder.

Timeline is BONKERS. House looks like a house. We’re all 90% drywall dust and caffeine. And there is NO tension because we are PROFESSIONALS.

She replies immediately:

The all-caps says everything. You’re one blown fuse away from Closet Makeout Session 2.0.

I ignore her and take some progress photos for my account, now pushing 50k followers. They’re weirdly invested in the house—and the slow-burn drama they’re convinced is playing out between me and “the hot carpenter.”

If only they knew how romantic it is to argue over junction box height while covered in fiberglass.

I post:

Week 2 of the accelerated timeline: Sleep is optional, coffee is essential, and I now dream in project schedules.

BUT LOOK AT THIS PROGRESS. Windows in. Electrical roughed.

And my beloved window seat is alive and thriving.

Four weeks until the cameras show up and I pretend to know what I’m doing.

#ThisLoveIsUnderConstruction #TinyHouseHugeFeelings #DeadlinesAreTerrible #ProgressIsBeautiful

I’m just hitting post when Owen walks back in. His expression is unreadable as he slips his phone away and returns to the plumbing diagrams.

“Everything okay?” I ask, keeping it casual.

“Fine,” he says, in the tone that means the exact opposite. “ The electrician needs the rest of the recessed lights finished today so he can start circuit testing.”

And we’re back to business.

We work like that all day—focused, efficient, and about as emotionally warm as two robots operating a miter saw. The tension builds like insulation dust in the corners, settling into every exchange.

When the last subcontractor leaves and it’s finally just us, I bring up the thing I’ve been circling for days.

“I’ve been thinking about the central support beam,” I say as we review tomorrow’s task list.

Owen looks up. “What about it?”

“I think we should remove it.” The words come out in a rush. “It breaks up the space awkwardly, especially with the open concept layout. Without it, everything feels more expansive, more connected.”

He blinks. Then goes still. “That’s a structural beam. Not decorative.”

“I know. But with the reinforced trusses we added and the load-bearing perimeter, I’m not sure it’s still needed. We basically rebuilt the entire frame.”

“It supports the loft,” he says, and I can hear the edge forming in his voice. “Removing it compromises the upper structure.”

“I’ve been researching alternatives,” I say, pulling up diagrams on my tablet. “We could redistribute the load to the walls, reinforce the loft. It’s doable.”

He barely glances. “It’s unnecessary. The beam stays.”

“Can you at least look?” I push. “This isn’t just about how it looks. It visually chops the space in half. In a tiny house, that matters.”

“What matters is that it doesn’t collapse,” he snaps. “I’m not trading stability for aesthetics.”

“It’s not a trade,” I say, exasperated. “It’s a design solution. And it feels like you’re refusing to even consider it because it’s not your idea.”

Owen’s jaw tightens. “I’m refusing because structural safety isn’t up for debate.”

“Don’t condescend,” I say, heat rising. “Just because I’m not a builder doesn’t mean I don’t understand the implications. I’ve done the work.”

“Reading DIY blogs is not structural engineering,” he says, gathering his notebook like the argument’s over.

“Then let’s get a structural engineer,” I snap. “Bring in someone objective who can actually assess the risk.”

Owen pauses, studying me with an intensity that would be unsettling if I weren’t equally fired up. “You want to pay a structural engineer to tell you what I already know?”

“I want an objective assessment,” I counter. “If I’m wrong, I’ll drop it. But if there’s a chance to open the space without compromising safety, don’t we owe it to the house to try?”

For a beat too long, I think he’ll flat-out refuse. Then, with visible reluctance, he nods once. “Your money. Your house.”

“Our project,” I correct, meeting his eyes. “And I value your expertise, Owen. I do. But I also believe in questioning assumptions when the stakes are high.”

He doesn’t respond, just refocuses on the schedule with a little too much intensity. “Drywall starts tomorrow. Any changes need to happen before then.”

“I’ll call first thing,” I say. It’s not a win, but it’s not a loss either.

We finish reviewing the schedule in taut silence.

When we part ways, it’s with stiff nods and minimal conversation.

As I walk back to the camper, doubt creeps in.

Maybe I overstepped. Owen’s the professional.

I’m just the homeowner who bought this place after too much champagne.

But that beam—it’s never sat right with me.

Not just how it looks. What it represents.

A divide. A limitation disguised as support .

Or maybe I’m just projecting onto the lumber. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“The beam is non-load-bearing in its current configuration.”

Adele Reyes, the structural engineer I managed to book on zero notice, says it without ceremony. She’s in her fifties, silver-streaked ponytail, no-nonsense tone. The kind of woman who’s spent her life telling men they’re wrong about buildings—and being right.

“The original framing relied on it,” she continues, pointing to the house plans spread across the makeshift work table. “But with your modified trusses and reinforced framing, the load’s been redistributed. This beam? Cosmetic.”

I resist the urge to shoot Owen a triumphant look. He stands beside her, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes on the blueprint.

“You’re certain?” he asks, voice even. “Removing it won’t affect loft stability?”

“Not with reinforcement at these connection points,” she says, marking spots on the plan. “These need bolstering, but structurally, the beam’s obsolete.”

Owen processes this like he does all decisions—with intense focus and silent recalculating. “Thanks for your time,” he says. “Could you note those reinforcements on the plans?”

While they talk technicals, I step back, giving him space. I hadn’t expected to be right, not really. I was ready to drop it. But now that I have confirmation, the win feels weirdly bittersweet. Validation is nice. Making Owen second-guess himself? Not so much.

When Adele leaves, the air turns heavy again.

“So,” I say, breaking the silence, “non-load-bearing after all.”

“Apparently,” he replies, unreadable.

“I’m not saying I told you so,” I offer—though let’s be honest, part of me absolutely wants to.

He finally looks at me. “You were right. I didn’t fully account for how the framing changed the load.”