Page 29 of This Love is Under Construction

There’s a particular sound that rain makes when you’re completely alone in a half-finished house.

Not the romantic patter on a tin roof that people pay white noise apps to simulate.

Not the cozy drumming that makes you want to curl up with tea and a book.

This is the insistent, menacing rhythm of water finding every vulnerability—testing seams, probing gaps, seeking out the weakest points.

I stand in the main living area, listening to the percussion of exposure as another storm descends on Maple Glen.

It’s been two days since Owen walked out, taking his tools, his expertise, and Finn with him.

Two days of pretending I can handle this alone.

Two days of YouTube tutorials and increasingly desperate calls to subcontractors, all of whom suddenly have “scheduling conflicts” now that Carver & Sons is no longer on the job.

Two days of realizing I’m in love with a man who thinks I was planning my escape all along.

“This is fine,” I mutter into the empty house, my voice lost beneath the rising wind. “Totally fine. Just a minor setback in the grand renovation journey.”

I check the tarp covering the roof section we hadn’t properly sealed.

It billows and strains, anchors groaning under the pressure.

The smart move would be to retreat to the camper and wait out the storm.

But something in me refuses to leave. As if standing guard can somehow protect what I clearly can’t fix.

I grab Owen’s backup toolbox and haul the stepladder beneath the worst leak, where water is dripping steadily onto the new flooring. The ladder wobbles as I climb, my weight uneven, my movements lacking the quiet confidence I used to watch him work with.

At the top, I inspect the ceiling seam where the drywall tape is pulling free and water seeps through. I need to redirect it somehow, create a makeshift channel until real repairs can happen. It sounds simple. In theory.

I reach for the plastic sheeting we’d used for earlier water damage repairs, fumbling with the utility knife. The blade slips—not enough to cut, but enough to send the knife clattering to the floor. I curse, the ladder shaking beneath me as I stretch toward the ceiling with my sad little patch.

“You’d know how to fix this,” I say aloud, pressing the plastic into place, fighting duct tape that refuses to adhere to anything damp. “You’d have the right tools, the right technique, that maddening calm that makes everything look effortless.”

The patch lasts eight seconds before peeling off completely.

I climb down, defeated by tape, water, and my own limits.

Standing in the center of this half-built house, surrounded by unfinished details and plans we were supposed to complete together, I feel the weight of everything I’ve lost. Not just Owen’s skill, but the quiet rhythm we’d found—the wordless coordination, the shared vision, the way we’d started to feel like a team.

“I can’t do this alone,” I tell the empty room, and the words taste like surrender.

The storm answers with a gust that rattles the windows—windows he installed, perfectly leveled and sealed. At least something in this place is holding.

I walk to the window seat—his reluctant gift to my impractical dream. It’s almost done now, just missing cushions and trim. I run a hand along the smooth edge, remembering the rare smile he gave when I’d first sat there and declared it perfect.

The memory lands like a bruise .

I sink into the seat, watching rain stream down the glass. And for once, I stop trying to hold everything together. I let myself feel it. All of it.

The storm drags on into the afternoon, relentless. I’ve managed to rig a system of buckets and plastic sheeting to catch the worst of the leaks. It’s crude but functional—which feels like the most accurate reflection of my current state.

At the workbench, I open my laptop and try to focus on next steps. The TV production deadline is less than two weeks away. I need to find another contractor fast—or accept that this opportunity is slipping through my fingers.

An email notification pings, cutting through the sound of rain. It’s from Adele Hutchinson.

My stomach drops. I open it with the kind of dread I haven’t felt since test scores in middle school.

From: Adele Hutchinson

To: Penny Winslow

Subject: URGENT: Production Schedule Concerns

Dear Penny,

I hope this email finds you well. I’m reaching out with some concerns regarding our production schedule for your tiny house episode.

Our location scout visited yesterday and reported significant delays in the renovation progress compared to our last update.

More concerning were reports that Owen Carver is no longer attached to the project.

As you know, the craftsman/homeowner dynamic was a key element in our storytelling approach.

Given our tight production timeline and network commitments, we need to make some difficult decisions:

1. Can you confirm whether Owen Carver is still involved in the renovation?

2. If not, do you have a replacement contractor secured who can complete the work by our filming date?

3. What is your realistic assessment of having the house camera-ready in 12 days?

I want to be transparent: our production schedule has no flexibility, and we need to be confident that your renovation will be substantially complete for filming. If that’s no longer feasible, we may need to pursue an alternate project for this slot.

Please respond with an update by end of day tomorrow. I’m happy to discuss by phone if that’s easier.

Best regards,

Adele Hutchinson

Senior Producer, Tiny House Transformations

I stare at the screen, rereading the email as rain hammers the roof. The TV opportunity—once the crown jewel of this entire project, the thing I thought would validate every risk I’d taken—now teeters on the edge of falling apart.

Six weeks ago, I would’ve snapped into crisis PR mode.

I’d have drafted a masterfully upbeat response, spun the delay into a narrative arc, reassured everyone that everything was perfectly under control.

The show was the reason I bought the house in the first place.

It was the proof I needed that I hadn’t completely lost the thread of my life.

But as I glance around at the half-finished living room, I realize the show isn’t what matters most anymore.

Between demo and drywall, somewhere in the sawdust and shared silence, this house became something more than a set piece or a strategy. It’s not just content. It’s home. Or at least, it could be .

I close the laptop without replying.

For once, I don’t want to spin. I want to build something real.

By late afternoon, the storm has shifted from full-on assault to steady, sulking drizzle. I slip on boots and head outside to inspect for damage, umbrella snapping in protest against the gusty wind.

The porch held up beautifully—Owen’s craftsmanship, unshaken. I move toward the steps and pause. A flash of cedar, half-buried in the mud, catches my eye.

I kneel and brush it free: a piece of a birdhouse.

But not just any birdhouse. Handcrafted, dovetail joints, decorative edges—distinctly Owen. I spot more fragments nearby: the arched roof, the delicate perch, the baseplate etched with the faintest carving: O.C.

My breath catches. This was one of his.

The secret ones Blake mentioned. The ones he leaves around town and never claims credit for.

Only this one wasn’t left at random. It was here. On my property. For me.

I collect the pieces with shaking hands, pressing them to my chest like a rescued artifact. Then I hurry back inside.

At the workbench, I lay everything out. It’s splintered in places, muddied, missing corners—but it’s still unmistakably beautiful. The roof pitch even mirrors my own house. This wasn’t just a gift. It was a quiet declaration. A message left unsaid.

And I never even saw it until it broke.

I find wood glue in the toolbox and start putting the birdhouse back together. Slowly. Carefully. Piece by piece. It’s tedious work, and I’m far from skilled, but I take my time. I hold each joint steady, resisting the urge to rush.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” I whisper as I press two splintered panels together. “Why do you build beautiful things and never let anyone know they came from you?”

The house creaks around me, silent.

I keep going. Some pieces are gone, lost to the wind or buried too deep in the mud. But I glue what I have, and when I’m done, it’s imperfect—visible damage, uneven edges—but still standing.

I run a finger over his carved initials.

“I wasn’t going to leave,” I say, the words breaking loose before I can brace myself. “I know that’s what you thought. That it was all just a PR stunt, that I was writing an ending before the beginning even finished. But I wasn’t planning my exit. Not anymore.”

Tears fall before I realize they’ve started—quiet, steady, uninvited. I let them come.

For Owen. For the house. For the version of myself who was always waiting for the next thing instead of letting herself belong.

I’ve spent so long bracing for abandonment that I forgot what it means to stay. To fight for something. To fight for someone.

Now I’m standing in the aftermath of both a storm and a silence, trying to rebuild with nothing but wood glue and borrowed resolve.

The birdhouse sits in front of me, scarred but standing. A mirror of this house. Of me. Of us .

When the tears finally subside, I find myself reaching for my phone with surprising purpose. Not to check social media or document the renovation for followers, but to make a call I’ve avoided for weeks. My finger hovers over the contact for a moment before I press “call.”

My mother answers on the fourth ring, her voice carrying the distracted quality that characterized most of my childhood conversations with her. “Penny? Is everything okay? You never call on Tuesdays.”