Page 3 of This Love is Under Construction

“You have arrived at your destination,” my GPS chirps with the confidence of someone who hasn’t made a series of catastrophically bad decisions.

“Not yet,” I mutter, squinting through the downpour at the quaint main street. “But definitely approaching the crime scene.”

My phone buzzes. Abby, checking in for the seventeenth time since I left LA yesterday.

Have you seen it yet? Remember, it’s not a disaster, it’s a JOURNEY. Also, did you look at the contractor’s Instagram? That beard is ART.

I haven’t looked up Owen Carver. It felt like adding another surreal layer to the whole mess—stalking the man who’s supposed to help me turn a drunk auction purchase into something habitable.

Besides, I’ve spent the past five days spiraling through panic, paperwork, and haphazard packing.

I sublet my apartment to a friend of Abby’s, put everything I own in storage, and drove north with whatever fit in my car. Which wasn’t much .

Another text:

Send pics of the house! And the town! And the hot lumberjack! I need to live vicariously through your breakdown!

I text back one-handed as I pass what appears to be all of Maple Glen’s downtown in about 45 seconds:

Just arrived. Town looks like it was designed by the Hallmark Channel. Will update when I see the house. If you don’t hear from me in 3 hours, I’ve either been murdered or the house collapsed on me.

The GPS directs me to turn right, and suddenly I’m leaving Main Street behind, winding uphill through trees that seem like they’re closing in. The houses thin out. The rain intensifies, drumming on the car roof like a countdown.

“In 500 feet, turn left onto Pinecrest Road,” the GPS announces.

Pinecrest Road turns out to be less a road and more a damp suggestion—narrow, unpaved, and winding through dense woods. My little rental sedan bounces over ruts and puddles, and I send a silent apology to the rental company. And also to my spine.

“In 200 feet, you will arrive at your destination.”

I round a bend.

And there it is.

My property. My house. My catastrophically impulsive life decision, squatting in a clearing like it knows exactly what it is.

“You have arrived,” the GPS says, with what I now recognize as thinly veiled mockery.

I put the car in park and stare through the rain-streaked windshield.

Oh .

Oh no .

The listing said “charming” and “needs TLC.” What I’m looking at is neither charming nor fixable with tender loving anything . It needs an exorcism. Or a controlled burn.

The house—let’s use that term loosely—leans in the clearing like it’s bracing for impact.

The paint might once have been blue, but now it’s a grayish-green patchwork of peeling wood.

One window is boarded up. Another has a spiderweb crack across the glass.

The porch sags in the middle like it gave up halfway through trying. Honestly, relatable.

“This is fine,” I say out loud, voice brittle. “Totally, completely fine.”

I grab my umbrella from the passenger seat and step out. Immediately, my platform sandals sink two inches into mud.

Because of course I wore platform sandals to inspect a construction site. In the rain. Because I am, apparently, committed to aesthetic over practicality even during a breakdown.

I squelch toward the house, umbrella tilted against the sideways rain, trying to channel HGTV optimism. Just look at those trees... and that sky. Very atmospheric.

The porch stairs groan as I climb, testing each step like it might be my last. The small covered porch offers minimal protection from the rain, which has now entered its biblical era.

I peer through the window. One room. A kitchenette in the corner. A single folding chair like it’s been placed there for dramatic effect.

I try the door. Locked.

“Keys would be helpful,” I mutter, rummaging through my bag until I find the envelope Marcus gave me. I pull out the tarnished key, slide it into the lock, and turn.

The door creaks open like a horror movie sound cue.

The interior is somehow worse.

The ceiling is water-stained in multiple places. The floor has give, which floors are not supposed to have. The smell is a blend of mildew, regret, and something that might once have been alive.

“Cozy,” I announce to no one. “Open concept. Very... minimalist murder cabin. ”

I take a few cautious steps inside. The kitchenette is a rusted sink and a splintered countertop. A ladder leads to a loft I will not be climbing. There’s a bathroom off to the side—I glance in and instantly wish I hadn’t.

“Sustainable living at its most authentic,” I say, quoting the auction listing, then laugh. It comes out more like a bark. Uh-oh.

A drop of water hits my head. Then another.

I look up.

The ceiling is leaking.

That’s when I hear the crunch of tires on gravel.

I step onto the porch just as a mud-splattered pickup truck pulls in behind my rental. The rain has downgraded from biblical to merely apocalyptic. A man climbs out.

And immediately, my brain short-circuits.

Tall. Henley. Work boots. Tool belt.

Dark hair pushed back like he’s been running a hand through it.

Gray-blue eyes that cut right through the drizzle.

He looks up, sees me, and his face shifts. Surprise? Judgement? Mild concern that I might be squatting?

He strides toward the porch like he owns the woods and maybe the weather, too.

“You must be Ms. Winslow,” he says, stopping at the bottom step. His voice is deep, low, and slightly gravelly—like it got rained on and never fully dried out .

“Penny,” I say. “Just Penny is fine. And you’re...?”

“Owen Carver. Carver & Sons.”

Oh.

The contractor.

The lumberjack Abby may or may not be thirst-following on Instagram.

“The renovation guy! Great. Thanks for... coming. I was just, you know, getting acquainted with my new... investment.”

His brow lifts. Investment.

Not a question. But it feels like one.

“Yes. My tiny house. Which is...” I gesture vaguely at the collapsing structure behind me. “Rustic.”

He climbs the stairs like he’s testing them for failure—which is fair, because step two groans under his weight like it’s about to unionize.

“Mind if I take a look?” he asks.

“Be my guest,” I say, stepping aside. “Mi casa es su death trap.”

He moves inside, assessing everything with quiet precision—walls, floors, cabinets. He opens the bathroom door, flinches slightly, then makes a note in the small notebook he pulls from his back pocket.

“The listing said it needed TLC,” I offer.

He doesn’t look up. “Foundation’s unstable. Roof needs full replacement. Electrical’s ancient, assuming it works. Plumbing—” he pauses, grim—”is probably not up to code. And there’s likely mold.”

Each word lands like a slap.

“But it’s fixable, right? That’s why you’re here. The renovation package.”

Owen looks up at me.

“Technically, anything’s fixable. With enough time and money.”

“Great! So we?—”

“It’d be cheaper to tear it down and start over.”

Another leak springs from the ceiling, water plopping between us like punctuation.

“Oh,” I say. Small. Hollow.

He glances up, then back at me. His face is unreadable. “The auction house should’ve disclosed the damage. This isn’t a renovation. It’s a rebuild.”

“But you’ll still... do it, right? The labor’s included.”

He studies me, and I suddenly regret every life choice that led to standing in front of a hot contractor while soaked, shaking, and sinking—both literally and financially.

“I’ll need to do a proper assessment,” he says finally. “See what’s salvageable. But it won’t be fast. And it won’t be cheap.”

“I understand,” I lie. Because I don’t. Not even a little.

Another drop hits my head, but I pretend it’s just rain. Not panic. Not defeat.

“I’ll wait in my car,” I say, abruptly. “While you... assess.”

I don’t wait for his response. I just turn and walk off the porch, careful not to slip. Behind me, the house looms. Broken. Quiet. Waiting.

In the relative sanctuary of my rental car, I finally let myself fall apart. Not a full meltdown—I’m saving that for when I’m not being watched by a stoic contractor with judgmental eyebrows—but enough that I have to dig through my purse for tissues.

“What was I thinking?” I whisper, watching Owen through the windshield as he circles the house, still assessing the exterior with quiet, methodical attention. “Seventy-five thousand dollars for a glorified garden shed with commitment issues.”

I reach into the backseat for my “essentials” box—the one thing I couldn’t bring myself to leave in storage.

It’s labeled KITCHEN in Sharpie, but it holds exactly zero kitchen items. Instead, it’s packed with survival gear: my favorite coffee mug, a framed photo of me and Abby from college, a dog-eared copy of The Secret History , and a shoebox full of postcards.

I lift the lid and run my fingers over the collection—postcards from every move, every maybe-home I’ve had. Some were gifts. Some I found in dusty gas station racks or museum gift shops. Each one a little love letter to nowhere.

From the bottom, I pull out the oldest—an image of the San Diego coastline, the colors faded with time. I flip it over.

In the handwriting of a ten-year-old me:

Dear Future Me,

I hope you found somewhere that feels like yours. Still looking.

– P

I trace the lines of the script with my thumb, a lump rising in my throat. Twenty-one years later, and I’m still looking. Still sending myself messages from places I never fully belong.

Through the windshield, Owen stands at what technically counts as my front lawn, hands on his hips, staring at the house like it’s personally offended him. Even from here, I can read the verdict in his posture: disaster.

Then he turns. And for one strange second, our eyes meet through the rain-blurred glass.

I don’t know what he sees—a city girl in over her head? A walking bad decision in platform sandals? I look away first, sliding the postcard back into the box like I’m hiding a secret.

A moment later, Owen approaches the car. I roll down the window, forcing my face into something vaguely competent, like I’m someone who owns property and not someone on the verge of Googling how to un-ruin your life in under 30 days.

“I’ll email you a detailed assessment,” he says, rain dripping from his hair onto his shoulders. “But the short version? Foundation needs complete rebuild. Roof’s a total loss. Electrical would burn the place down if you tried to flip a switch.”

“Sounds cozy,” I say, dryly. Humor is all I have left.

Something flickers at the corner of his mouth—almost a smile. But it vanishes so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.

“I can start drawing up plans next week,” he adds. “In the meantime, don’t stay here. It’s not safe.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” I say, motioning to the car full of luggage. “I’ve got a room at Marge’s B&B in town.”

He nods, clearly relieved I’m not planning to sleep in a structure one stiff breeze away from collapsing.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says, then hesitates. “For what it’s worth... the land’s good. Nice view when it’s not raining. Private, but not too isolated.”

It’s such a small thing—such a minor, throwaway comfort—but I grab onto it like a lifeline.

“Thanks,” I say, meaning it. “I’ll look forward to your email.”

He nods once, then turns and walks back to his truck, all long strides and quiet confidence—someone who knows exactly who he is, and exactly where he belongs.

I watch him drive away, mud spraying from his tires, until the truck disappears around the bend.

Silence returns, broken only by the steady patter of rain on the car roof.

I look back at my tiny disaster house.

In LA, I could spin this. I could call it a blank canvas or a hidden gem or whatever bullshit phrase makes people feel okay about making irreversible mistakes.

I could even convince myself to believe it.

But here, with rain seeping into my shoes and my life savings sunk into rotting beams and a busted waterline—I can’t summon the energy to lie to myself anymore.

I start the car. The postcard box sits beside me in the passenger seat like a quiet witness.

As I back down the muddy driveway, I glance once more in the rearview mirror. The house is barely visible now through the rain and the rising dusk.

I came to Maple Glen looking for a fresh start.

What I got was a collapsing roof, a contractor who clearly thinks I’m unhinged, and the terrifying realization that—for once—I might not be able to pack up and leave when things get hard.

This time, I might have to stay.