Page 25 of This Love is Under Construction

“The thing about storms is that they always tell you they’re coming,” Owen says, methodically checking the seals around the newly installed windows. “You just have to know how to read the signs.”

I trail him around the tiny house, watching as he inspects weatherstripping and tests the tightness of each frame. Outside, the sky has taken on that greenish-gray tone that signals incoming weather—not quite threatening yet, but definitely ominous.

“Like the barometric pressure drop that makes your sinuses feel like they’re hosting a rave?” I ask, handing him the caulk gun when he reaches for it without looking. We’ve developed this shorthand—anticipating each other’s needs, moving in rhythm around the site.

“That’s one sign,” he says, applying a clean bead of caulk to a small gap. “Also cloud formations. Wind shifts. Animal behavior.”

“Finn’s been extra clingy this morning,” I point out. The dog is currently camped out at my feet like a furry shadow. “Weather-predicting superpower?”

“Pressure sensitivity,” Owen replies, moving on. “Most animals can feel it before we do.”

We’re two days into repairing the water damage we discovered earlier this week, and with another storm on the way, weatherproofing has become the priority. The TV crew arrives in just over two weeks, and every setback now feels like a seismic event.

“So what exactly are we doing here?” I ask. “Besides the obvious ‘keep the rain outside’ objective.”

He pauses, considering how to break it down. “Weatherproofing is about creating a protective envelope,” he says, gesturing around the window. “It’s a system of barriers and drainage planes. They work together to manage moisture.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“It’s not, really,” he continues, pointing as he explains. “You’ve got your primary defense—the siding, the windows—but that’s not enough. You need backup layers. Flashing, building paper, proper drainage paths. Think of it like layers of armor.”

I watch him work—precise, focused, efficient. There’s something grounding in the way he handles the technical side of things, like the world makes sense as long as he’s holding a level.

“The key,” he adds, inspecting the next window, “is knowing that no system is perfect. Water finds a way. Good weatherproofing isn’t about sealing everything off—it’s about protecting what matters while still letting the structure breathe.”

The way he says it lodges somewhere beneath my ribs.

“So it’s not about being impenetrable,” I say, slowly. “It’s about being... selectively permeable?”

He glances at me, surprised by the phrasing. “Exactly. Seal everything too tight, and you get condensation. Mold. Too open, and, well...” He gestures to the wall we just rebuilt.

“Balance,” I say. “Keeping the bad stuff out while letting the right stuff in.”

He nods. “That’s weatherproofing. Protecting what matters.”

We move to the next window, silence settling as I think about protection systems and controlled permeability. About barriers that don’t isolate—they filter. About the walls I’ve built around my own heart. Once solid. Now... maybe not so sealed .

“How do you know what to keep out and what to let in?” I ask, though we both know I’m not just talking about the house.

Owen pauses at the weatherstripping. “Experience,” he says finally. “Mistakes. Patterns. You learn. Eventually.” He meets my eyes. “Sometimes you still get it wrong.”

The air between us tightens, charged with everything we haven’t said. This—whatever this is—has been building for weeks. Since the storm. Since the beam. Since the night we swayed together in the dark.

“Well,” I say, forcing lightness into my voice, “I’m getting better at spotting leaks before they turn into disasters. Growth.”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Progress.”

We finish the inspection just as thunder rumbles in the distance. The forecast says we have hours, but the pressure change is already here. Something’s coming.

For now, we keep working. Sealing edges. Reinforcing gaps. Protecting what we’ve built against what’s on the horizon.

Turns out, weatherproofing isn’t just technique. It’s philosophy.

It’s hope disguised as preparation.

“Ms. Penny! Ms. Penny! I brought my painting clothes!”

The high-pitched voice slices through the afternoon quiet as I’m organizing supplies in the storage area. I poke my head out to see a small figure charging up the path to the tiny house, waving what looks like a plastic grocery bag overhead like a victory flag.

Jamie Henderson. Eight years old. Son of Thomas Henderson—the same Henderson whose lake house renovation Veronica has been trying to lure Owen onto.

Jamie visited the site last week when Thomas stopped by to pitch the project in person.

While the adults talked shop, Jamie had been far more interested in mixing paint samples with me and asking a million questions about “construction stuff.”

“Hey, buddy,” I call, stepping onto the porch. “What’s with the painting gear?”

“You said I could help paint next time!” he says, eyes wide with excitement. “And Dad said you were painting today, so he dropped me off. He’s getting coffee with Ms. Wilcox but he’ll be back in an hour.”

Right. That promise. I vaguely remember making it, though I didn’t think he’d actually take me up on it. Behind me, I sense Owen step outside, his presence shifting the air in that way it always does—subtle, but unmistakable.

“Jamie,” Owen says, nodding in acknowledgment. “Here to do a site inspection?”

“I’m here to paint!” Jamie grins, hoisting his bag higher. “I brought my old clothes and everything!”

Owen glances at me, eyebrow raised in silent question. I shrug, an unspoken translation: I didn’t expect this either, but I’m game if you are.

“We’re priming the bathroom wall today,” I tell Jamie. “Not the most exciting job, but you’re welcome to help if your dad gave the okay.”

“He said I just can’t fall through the floor or break anything,” Jamie replies solemnly. “I promised to be careful.”

“A solid policy,” Owen agrees, his tone a little softer than usual. “Let’s get you set up with some gear.”

To my surprise, Owen pulls a child-sized dust mask and safety goggles from his truck, explaining that his sister’s kids sometimes tag along to sites.

We help Jamie change into his paint clothes—a t-shirt so stained it’s a mystery what color it ever was—and lead him to the bathroom, where the new drywall is prepped and ready for primer.

“Painting is all about prep,” I explain, channeling Owen’s usual methodical tone. “We tape the edges, stir the primer, and then use the roller for big areas, brush for corners. ”

Jamie nods seriously. “I painted in art class once. We just used brushes. But I’m ready.”

Owen shows him how to load a roller. “This is about coverage and clean lines.”

For the next forty-five minutes, the three of us work in a rhythm: Jamie rolling primer with a surprising level of focus, Owen correcting technique with calm authority, and me keeping the corners and edges from getting out of control.

Jamie talks nonstop—about his school project on local wildlife, his goldfish (named Swim Shady), and why the bathroom should be blue because “it looks like water, but doesn’t ruin walls. ”

Owen is patient in a way I don’t usually see. He answers Jamie’s rapid-fire questions seriously, like the boy’s opinions carry real weight. And maybe they do. There’s a softness in Owen around kids that smooths his usual rough edges, like someone brushing dust off finished wood.

“Almost done!” Jamie announces, stretching up to reach the last patch. “This is gonna be the best bathroom ever.”

“It’s definitely coming together,” I agree. “You’re a natural.”

“Dad says I’m good at projects,” Jamie beams. “Not like school, but real stuff. I made a whole fort in our backyard. Just needed a little help.”

“That’s impressive,” Owen says, and I can hear the genuine respect in his voice. “Building things is a skill.”

Jamie pauses, then tilts his head. “Are you guys gonna live here when it’s done?”

The question lands like a brick in the middle of the room. I freeze, brush mid-stroke. “It’s a pretty small house,” Jamie adds quickly, “but it’s really cool.”

“I’ll be living here,” I say, careful not to glance at Owen. “It’s mine.”

“But you both work on it,” Jamie points out. “So I thought maybe you were building it to live in together.”

The silence that follows is the heavy, awkward kind only kids can create with their blunt honesty. I sneak a glance at Owen, but his face is unreadable, jaw a little tighter than before.

“Sometimes people build things together even if they don’t live in them,” I say at last. “Owen’s helping me because he’s a professional. This is what he does.”

Jamie thinks about it. “Like how my teacher helps me learn stuff but she doesn’t come home with me after school?”

“Exactly,” I say. “Just like that.”

We redirect the conversation to safer territory—Maple Festival plans, Halloween costumes, whether primer smells worse than feet. By the time we wrap up, Jamie’s covered in paint specks and grinning with pride.

“I made something for you,” he says, digging into his backpack. “It’s your house. I drew it yesterday.”

He hands me a crumpled sheet of construction paper. The drawing is all bright colors and uneven lines, a house with massive windows and a wildly incorrect chimney. But scrawled across the top in blocky, earnest handwriting is a single word: HOME .

Not “The Sequin Shack.” Not “Ms. Penny’s House.” Just… home.

My throat tightens unexpectedly. “Jamie, this is amazing. Thank you.”

“You can hang it up when it’s done,” he says, pleased. “Mom calls it a housewarming present.”

“I’m going to keep it somewhere safe right now,” I say, blinking more than necessary. “But I’ll hang it up the minute we’re finished.”