Page 23 of This Love is Under Construction

Coming from Owen, it might as well be an engraved apology. It clearly costs him, and I feel it.

“You couldn’t have known without calculations,” I say gently. “You were right to be cautious.”

His eyes meet mine. “But you were right to push it.”

The words carry more weight than just structural validation. Respect. Acknowledgment. Something more.

“So,” I ask, “we’re taking it out?”

“We’re taking it out,” he confirms. “Once the reinforcement’s in. Tomorrow, probably.”

My grin is instantaneous. “The internet is going to lose its mind.”

He gives me a look. “Make sure they know it was only possible because of structural modifications. I don’t want a DIY domino effect.”

“Noted,” I promise. “This will be the most responsibly engineered demo in home-renovation Instagram history.”

The rest of the day becomes a blur of prep—installing reinforcements, clearing space, documenting the “before.” The tension from earlier shifts into momentum, like we’ve re-synced after weeks of friction.

As we’re cleaning up, Owen pauses, notebook in hand, as if about to say something else. But his phone buzzes. He checks the screen. His face changes—slightly.

“Veronica?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

He looks up, surprised. “Yeah. Dinner meeting about the Henderson project.”

“Oh,” I say, playing it off. “Well. Big day tomorrow. Operation Beam Removal and all.”

He watches me for a beat. “It’s just a professional consultation.”

“Of course.” I laugh too brightly. “Rule Eight. No jealousy over people who aren’t ours. ”

He doesn’t respond to that. Just says, “Meeting’s at The Griddle.”

“Great pie,” I say. “Not that you need to get pie. Or not get pie. Pie’s your call.”

I’m rambling, and we both know it.

“I’ll see you at eight,” he says, heading out.

“Eight o’clock,” I echo, voice too even.

When he’s gone, I linger, staring at the nearly finished window seat, trying not to think about him and Veronica in a booth over coffee and blueprints.

It shouldn’t matter. He’s not mine.

But it does.

I distract myself with progress photos, planning my update for tomorrow. The house is transforming—window seat nearly trimmed, kitchen prepped for cabinetry, the floor plan finally breathing. It’s happening.

Eventually, hunger forces me into town. My camper fridge holds only mustard and regrets, so I head to The Griddle for takeout.

I tell myself I’m not looking for them.

But the moment I walk in, I see them.

Corner booth. Blueprints spread between them. She says something and he laughs—an actual, full-faced laugh that lights up his whole expression.

And it hits me, hard and stupid, that I’ve only ever seen him laugh like that a handful of times. But never with me.

She reaches across the table to point at something on the drawings, her hand briefly touching his arm in a gesture that speaks of comfortable familiarity. Owen doesn’t pull away.

Something twists in my chest—a sharp, unexpected ache that has nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the scene in front of me.

I stand frozen near the entrance, suddenly unsure why I came.

The logical part of my brain insists this is nothing—colleagues reviewing project plans over dinner.

But another part, the one I’ve been trying hard to ignore, recognizes this as something else.

They have history. Connection. A shared language I can’t match, no matter how many construction terms I’ve crammed into my brain. They make sense together in a way Owen and I—with our constant friction and messy middle ground—never could.

“Penny!” Doris’s voice cuts through my spiral. “You need a table, hon? Or takeout?”

I tear my eyes away from the booth, hoping neither of them noticed me staring. “Takeout, please. Just a sandwich to go.”

“Coming right up,” Doris says, then adds gently, “You okay, sweetheart? You look a little pale.”

“Fine,” I reply, managing a smile that feels thin. “Just tired from the renovation marathon.”

While I wait, I keep my back to the corner booth, pretending to check messages while opening random apps just to look occupied. My chest still aches with that strange, sharp feeling I refuse to name.

It’s not jealousy. It can’t be. That would break Rule #8—and worse, it would mean admitting feelings I’m not ready to face.

When my sandwich arrives, I practically bolt, not risking another glance at the corner booth. The cool night air clears my head slightly as I walk to my car, clutching the paper bag like it might shield me from everything I don’t want to feel.

Back at the camper, I eat mechanically, barely tasting the food.

My mind replays the image of Owen laughing at something Veronica said—his whole face soft in a way I rarely see.

It shouldn’t matter. We’re not… anything.

One kiss during a storm doesn’t make a relationship.

A few lingering glances don’t equal commitment.

But as I crawl into bed, exhaustion edging out everything else, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s shifting—not just with the house, but with me.

Tomorrow we’re removing a beam that once seemed essential but isn’t actually supporting anything.

The space will open, transform—become what it was meant to be all along.

I fall asleep wondering what else I’ve been clinging to that I could let go of.

The beam removal turns out to be both more dramatic—and more symbolic—than I expected.

We start early, clearing the area and setting up supports. Owen moves with his usual methodical precision, double-checking every measurement, every connection, before reaching for the saw.

“Ready?” he asks, safety gear on, reciprocating saw in hand.

I nod, fully geared up and holding my phone to document the process. “Ready.”

The saw screeches through the wood, sending sawdust everywhere despite our best efforts. Owen works with practiced intensity, cutting precisely at the points where the beam connects to the ceiling. I film everything, narrating for the video.

“The structural engineer confirmed this beam isn’t supporting anything critical,” I explain to the camera. “We redistributed the load to the perimeter walls during the renovation, so removing this opens up the space and improves the flow.”

When he finishes the final cut, Owen sets the saw down and looks at me. “Want to help pull it?”

I switch my phone to time-lapse and set it on a shelf, then join him. The beam’s still partially attached but no longer bearing any weight.

“On three,” he says. “One, two, three.”

We pull together. It comes free more easily than I expected. Lowering it to the floor, I’m struck by its weight—this solid piece of wood that once felt so essential.

But when we step back and look at the space—everything changes.

“Oh wow,” I breathe. “It’s completely different.”

Without the beam dividing the area, the main living space flows into the kitchen. Light stretches uninterrupted from wall to wall. The whole house feels... bigger. Brighter. My window seat now anchors a unified space instead of being boxed off behind a visual barrier.

“It’s better,” Owen says, surveying the space. “The proportions work now.”

“It’s not just better—it’s transformed,” I say, stepping into the place where the beam used to stand. “The sightlines, the light, the openness... this is what I pictured.”

Owen nods, and I catch the faintest flicker of appreciation on his face. “You were right to question it.”

The acknowledgment lands gently, but solidly. “We were right to check before taking it out,” I say, offering the credit back. “Team effort.”

He almost smiles—tension from yesterday completely gone. We stand side by side in the open space, both soaking in the change.

“It’s strange,” I murmur, looking down at the beam on the floor. “It seemed so necessary. But it was just... there. Taking up space. Dividing things that wanted to be connected.”

“Not all support is structural,” Owen says quietly. “Some things look like they’re holding everything together, but they’re just in the way.”

I glance at him, surprised. “Exactly. And you don’t know until you stop and ask. Until you’re brave enough to question what’s really necessary—and what’s just history.”

He meets my gaze, and for a second, it feels like we’re speaking two languages at once—construction and something else entirely. Then he turns back to the tools.

“We should clean up before the drywall team gets here.”

“Yeah,” I agree, grabbing a broom.

We move together through the dust, clearing out the mess, making room for what comes next. The beam is gone, and the space feels whole—finally. And I can’t help wondering what other invisible weight I’ve been carrying, mistaking it for strength.

Maybe letting go is the real support I’ve been needing all along.