Page 28 of This Love is Under Construction

They say the most dangerous moment in renovation isn’t the tearing down—it’s the part after, when the structure is exposed and raw, its bones laid bare. That’s when you see what’s been hidden all along. The rot. The weakness. The parts that can’t be ignored anymore.

Nothing’s changed physically since yesterday, but the house feels different somehow—like it absorbed the echo of the argument.

The nearly finished window seat, once a symbol of compromise and connection, now sits in the corner like an accusation: You thought you could stay. You thought this meant something.

I fill the time with busywork—organizing materials, double-checking the schedule, responding to TV production emails.

Anything to feel in control while my mind loops the same questions.

How do we recover from this? Does he really believe I’m still planning to leave?

Was everything we built just... one-sided?

“Hey, buddy,” I say quietly, crouching to scratch his head. “At least you’re still happy to see me.”

Owen walks in carrying rolled plans and his laptop.

His face is composed, too composed. He’s wearing the gray henley I’ve come to recognize as his armor—buttoned to the top, sleeves pushed just enough to move but not enough to relax.

His hair’s still damp. Clean-shaven. It all feels.

.. deliberate. Like he needed a buffer layer of polish between us.

“Morning,” he says, his tone bordering on neutral. “I revised the schedule to account for the tile delay.”

“Great,” I answer, matching his civility. “TV producers sent over a revised shot list. I’ve been going through it.”

We work around each other with exaggerated precision, the kind of careful choreography that would seem efficient to anyone watching—if anyone were watching. The synchronicity we used to share has vanished, replaced by strategic avoidance, every movement calculated to minimize contact.

He unrolls the revised plans on the workbench. I glance at them and feel a fresh pang—the schedule’s been reorganized top to bottom. Not just adjusted for logistics. Tasks divided. Responsibilities isolated. Minimal overlap. It’s subtle, but the message is clear.

“You’ve separated everything,” I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice, but failing.

“It’s more efficient,” he replies without meeting my eyes. “Maximizes time.”

“Right. And minimizes communication,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

His eyes flick up then, cautious. “We have a deadline, Penny. I’m trying to keep things moving.”

“Of course,” I say, defaulting to neutral ground. “Painters are on track. Tile’s supposed to arrive tomorrow. What do you need from me?”

He taps a section on the page. “Bathroom fixtures. Vanity install needs to happen before the plumber gets here Thursday.”

We dive into work, keeping our conversations strictly functional. The only sound is the occasional clatter of tools or a measurement called across the space. Finn watches from the corner, his head moving back and forth between us like he’s tracking a match no one’s winning.

By ten, the tension is thick enough to cut. I’m in the bathroom, wrestling a fixture into place. Owen’s in the kitchen, installing cabinet hardware with the silent intensity of someone in self-imposed exile.

“The producers want to film a walkthrough next week,” I say, finally breaking the silence. “Just some preliminary shots before the big reveal.”

He doesn’t look up. “I’ll make sure the main rooms are ready.”

“They also asked about styling the window seat. I said I’d talk to you before making a decision.”

This time, his hands still for just a beat. “Your call. It’s your house.”

The words are sharp in their precision. My house. Not our project. Not something we shaped together. Just another job for him. Just another possession for me.

“Right,” I say tightly, twisting the fixture with more force than necessary. “My house. Your job.”

He turns now. Not abruptly. Not angrily. Just... directly. “That’s what this is. A renovation contract.”

“That’s all it is?” The words are out before I can stop them.

“What else would it be?” he says, voice calm but stripped bare. “You hired me. I took the job. There’s a scope of work. There’s a deadline.”

“That’s not what it’s been,” I say, letting the tool fall to the floor with a quiet thunk. “You know that.”

He doesn’t answer .

“This isn’t just content,” I go on. “And it’s not a storyline. It changed.”

He meets my gaze. “Changed for who? You got more followers. You leaned into the story. It fit your brand.”

My breath catches. “You really think that’s all this was to me?”

“You tell me.” His voice is flat, but the line of his jaw is tense. “The flip plans. The projected profits. The exit strategy. What was all that if not planning your way out?”

“I wrote those before I ever got here,” I say. “Before I knew anything about you, or the town, or this house. Before I knew I’d want to stay.”

He shakes his head. “You talk about staying. But I’ve heard that before. I’ve seen what it looks like when someone says they want to build a life here, and then starts looking for their way out the minute things get real.”

“I’m not her,” I say, the words quiet but certain.

“Then what are you, Penny?” he asks. “Because I don’t know what part of this is real anymore.”

“You are,” I say. “This house. This work. The part of me that wants to stay, even if I’m scared I won’t know how. Even if I’ve never stayed anywhere long enough to believe I could.”

We stand there, both of us holding everything we’ve been afraid to say, and all I can think is: demolition isn’t the moment of destruction. It’s the part where you have to face what’s been underneath all along.

“Those were from before!” I snap, sharper than intended, the frustration bubbling over. “Before I knew this town, before I had any idea what I was building here. People change, Owen. Plans change.”

“Some people don’t,” he replies, low and deliberate. “Some just get better at telling themselves they have.”

It lands hard. “So that’s what you think? That I’m pretending to care? Playing house until something better comes along?”

“I think you’re doing exactly what you’ve always done,” he says. “Crafting a moment. Creating a story that works for right now, just long enough to keep from committing to anything that lasts.”

“And you’re doing what you’ve always done,” I shoot back, the hurt pushing recklessly forward. “Hiding in your work. Pretending control means safety. You build walls so well, it never even occurs to you someone might want to stay.”

He flinches, just barely, but it’s enough to know I hit somewhere close to the truth. And even knowing that, I don’t stop.

“This is just another project to flip and forget for you,” he says, cutting in before I can speak again. “Another temporary stop on your way back to the life you actually want.”

“And you’ve built a life you don’t want,” I counter. “You gave up your design career. You gave up Boston. You gave up your own future so you could be the one who stays. And now you’re too scared to want anything else because if it doesn’t work, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

The silence stretches like a pulled wire. We’re breathing hard, not from exertion, but from saying things that were never supposed to be said. We’ve both drawn blood.

“You don’t know what I want,” Owen says, quieter now, but no less sure.

“Don’t I?” I take a step forward. “I’ve seen your sketches. I’ve watched you explain architecture like it’s sacred. You light up when you talk about design, Owen, but you’re terrified to want it out loud. So you pretend building someone else’s dream is enough.”

“And you run from every opportunity to stop,” he says, matching my step. “You call it freedom, but it’s just fear. You leave before anyone else gets the chance.”

We’re standing close now, so close I can see how hard he’s working to hold the line between anger and something softer. His eyes flick across my face like he’s memorizing it against his will .

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” My voice drops. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”

“Yet.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but the word lands like a verdict. “Your plans say otherwise.”

“Plans change. People change.” My voice cracks under the strain. “You just won’t believe that I have.”

“I’ve heard this before,” he says. “Someone saying they could make it work. Saying they were choosing this. And then packing up anyway.”

There’s something in his voice now that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with what came before. I hear it—the betrayal. The exhaustion of building something with someone who walked away.

“I’m not her,” I say, softer now.

He meets my gaze. “You left a life once too.”

“And you stayed in one that’s slowly closing in on you,” I reply. “We both chose survival over risk. The only difference is I’m ready to try something different.”

He doesn’t answer right away, but I see the flicker of something in his eyes—fear, maybe. Or hope, immediately smothered.

“I can’t do this again,” he says, like it costs him something to admit. “I can’t open up to someone who’s already halfway out the door.”

“I’m not—” I start, but he lifts a hand, a quiet stop.

“You wrote your ending, Penny,” he says. “I’m just trying to read the signs before I get blindsided.”

“So that’s it?” I ask. “You’re going to decide who I am based on notes I scribbled two months ago and ignore everything we’ve built since?”

He exhales, steady and controlled. “It’s not about who you are. It’s about what’s real. And right now? I don’t know what is.”

I step closer, heart pounding. “You are. This is. What I feel—this is.”

But he shakes his head and starts collecting his tools. His movements are clinical, practiced. Detached.

“I need to check on my dad,” he says, already halfway toward the door. “Painters come at one. The materials list for tomorrow is on the bench.”

“Wait—what does that mean?” I follow him outside. “You’re leaving?”

“If we’re going to hit the production deadline, we can’t afford distraction. I’ll refer you to Blake Reynolds. He’s solid. He can get it done.”

“You’re quitting?” I ask, stunned. “After everything?”

“I’m being practical,” he says. “This isn’t working.”

“You mean us,” I say. “This thing between us.”

“I mean the project,” he replies without hesitation. “The rest... doesn’t exist.”

And just like that, he gets in the truck. The gravel crunches under his tires as he pulls away, and I’m left standing there, staring after him, the cold wind cutting through my jacket and something colder settling deeper inside.

For most of my life, I was the one who left. I thought it was safer—easier—than waiting to be asked to go. But now, for the first time, I stayed. I rooted. I let someone in.

And he walked away anyway.

The deliberate dismissal hurts more than his anger did. At least anger had weight, heat—at least it meant there was something worth fighting for. This calculated distance is worse. It’s erasure. A quiet rewriting of everything we’ve built beyond hammer and nails.

“That’s not true,” I say, and my voice is quieter than I mean it to be. “And you know it.”

He doesn’t respond. Just keeps gathering his plans from the workbench, his back to me, posture rigid with restraint.

For a second, I think he might turn around.

That he might look at me and admit—if only for a breath—that this is more than some severed contract.

But instead, he just squares his shoulders like he’s cinching a load, like he’s locking it all down again.

“I’ll have my final invoice prepared by tomorrow, Ms. Winslow. Blake can start as early as Thursday if that works with your schedule.”

Ms. Winslow.

Not Penny. Not Winslow, which used to sound like a tease, like something meant only for me. Now it’s just armor. A wall made of formality and finality.

“Don’t do this,” I say, the edge of desperation creeping into my voice, even as I try to hold it back. “Don’t walk away. Not from the project, not from—” I can’t even finish the sentence.

“There is no us,” he says, flat and final. “There’s a renovation contract. That’s it. And it’s no longer viable.”

He picks up the last of his tools and heads for the door. Finn stands, tail low, eyes flicking between us. The silence stretches until Owen calls him—softly, with more warmth than he’s shown me all morning.

“Come on, Finn.”

The dog hesitates, visibly torn. He takes one slow step toward Owen, then stops, turning his head back toward me.

It breaks something in me—that brief moment of confusion, of loyalty split in two.

But eventually, Finn follows, reluctant and slow, slipping out the door behind the man who won’t look back.

I stay frozen, listening to the dull thump of tools being loaded into the truck. When the engine starts and the crunch of gravel fades down the drive, the silence that follows feels louder than any argument we’ve ever had.

I sit down—drop, really—onto the window seat. The same window seat I fought for, argued over, designed with him. The one that ended up being about more than a view or a cushion or storage space. It was a space we carved out together. It held compromise. Possibility. Home.

We never made a rule about heartbreak.

Maybe we should have. Rule Number Eleven: No demolition without a rebuilding plan.

They always say you have to tear something down before you can rebuild. I just didn’t think the thing in ruins would be me.