Page 32 of This Love is Under Construction

I approach with growing hesitation, aware that I’m definitely overstepping.

The door is closed but not locked, another sign of small-town trust that makes my urban-trained instincts nervous.

I should leave. This is his private space.

Yet something pulls me forward—the need to understand this man who builds homes for birds and walls around his heart with equal skill.

“Hello?” I call out, pushing the door open slightly. “Owen?”

No answer, just the particular silence of an empty workspace. I step inside, immediately enveloped by the smell of cedar, varnish, and sawdust—the scent I’ve come to associate with Owen himself. Sunlight streams through carefully positioned windows, illuminating a space that takes my breath away.

The workshop is immaculate—tools organized on pegboards with precision that borders on artistic, workbenches clear except for current projects, floor swept clean despite the constant battle against sawdust. But what stops me in my tracks are the birdhouses—dozens of them, in various stages of completion, displayed on shelves that line an entire wall.

Each design is unique. Some are whimsical—tiny replicas of local buildings including The Griddle, the town library, and what appears to be Marge’s B&B.

Others are modern and sculptural, with clean lines and unexpected angles.

Many incorporate elements of the natural landscape—one shaped like a hollowed tree trunk, another nestled within a piece of driftwood.

The craftsmanship is exquisite, the attention to detail extraordinary.

I move closer, careful not to touch anything. Each birdhouse has a small metal plate on the bottom—I lift one slightly to read the engraving: “O.C.” followed by a date. His signature, hidden where only the maker would know it exists.

In the center of the main workbench sits a half-completed project that makes my heart catch—a miniature version of my tiny house, the proportions perfect, the details exact down to the newly installed windows and the partially constructed window seat.

He’s been building this here, in secret, while officially walking away from the actual project.

I step back, overwhelmed by what I’ve discovered.

This isn’t just a hobby or side project.

This is Owen’s true self—the creative spirit he keeps hidden beneath the practical contractor exterior.

He’s been anonymously filling Maple Glen with these small, perfect homes, bringing beauty to the community without taking credit.

The parallel to my own life hits me with unexpected force.

How many years did I spend crafting perfect narratives for products I didn’t care about, hiding my authentic self behind professional competence?

We’ve both been living divided lives—showing practical exteriors while keeping our deeper selves hidden.

The sound of gravel crunching outside alerts me that I’ve overstayed my welcome. I slip out the side door, hurrying back to my car with the strange feeling of having glimpsed something precious and private—a room in Owen’s heart I wasn’t invited to enter.

When I return to the tiny house, Owen’s truck is parked in its usual spot—not hidden at the edge of the property, but right where it always used to be during our working days.

My heart leaps into my throat as I pull up beside it, both eager and terrified to face him after everything that’s happened.

Inside, I find him on a ladder beneath the leak I’d tried unsuccessfully to patch, efficiently installing a proper repair.

He’s wearing his usual work clothes—faded flannel with rolled sleeves, worn jeans, tool belt secured around his waist. Finn lies nearby, watching with the contentment of a dog whose pack is finally in the same place again.

Owen glances down as I enter, his expression carefully neutral. “The temporary patch was pulling away,” he says by way of explanation. “Storm front coming in tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” I say, unsure how to navigate this unexpected return. Is he back as the contractor? A concerned neighbor? Something else entirely?

He nods once, returning to his work with focused precision. I stand awkwardly for a moment, then move to the window seat where the repaired birdhouse sits in its new home. I adjust it slightly, making sure it’s visible from where he’s working.

“I found it after the storm,” I say, breaking the tense silence. “It was damaged, but I tried to fix it. Not as well as you would have, but it should still work for the birds.”

Owen pauses, his eyes moving to the birdhouse. Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or recognition. “You repaired it.”

It’s not quite a question, but I answer anyway. “I did. It seemed important to try, even if the results aren’t perfect.”

He studies the birdhouse for a long moment, taking in my amateur repair work—the visible seams, the slight asymmetry, the missing decorative elements I couldn’t salvage. “It’s structurally sound,” he says finally. “That’s what matters.”

The words feel weighted with meaning beyond the birdhouse.

I watch as he returns to the ceiling repair, his movements efficient and practiced.

This is the Owen I know—the competent craftsman focused on practical solutions.

But now I’ve seen the other Owen too—the one who designs innovative tiny homes and creates beautiful birdhouses in a secret workshop.

“I know about the workshop,” I say abruptly, the confession tumbling out before I can reconsider. “I went there today. I know I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

Owen goes completely still on the ladder, his back to me. For a moment, I think he might simply walk out again. Then his shoulders drop slightly, tension releasing.

“How did you find it?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral.

“Process of elimination. And a hunch.” I move closer to the ladder, needing to see his face. “Why do you hide them? The birdhouses. They’re beautiful, Owen. Extraordinary.”

He descends the ladder, finally turning to face me. His expression is guarded, but not angry. “They’re just a hobby.”

“They’re more than that,” I counter gently. “They’re art. They’re homes you create and then give away without taking credit.”

Something shifts in his eyes—discomfort, certainly, but also something else. Recognition, perhaps, at being seen. “Not everything needs an audience.”

“No, but some things deserve to be acknowledged.” I hesitate, then add, “Like your designs for this house. I found your notebook too.”

Now he does look away, jaw tightening. “You’ve been busy.”

“I was looking for supplies to fix the roof,” I explain, though it sounds like a flimsy excuse even to my ears.

“The notebook was with the extra materials. I shouldn’t have looked, but I did.

And Owen—those designs are incredible. Why didn’t you tell me you were incorporating your own architectural vision? ”

He shrugs, the gesture aiming for casual but landing squarely in vulnerability. “You hired me as a contractor, not a designer.”

“But we became partners,” I say, the word hanging between us, heavy with all its possible meanings. “We made decisions together. You could’ve told me those ideas were yours.”

“Would it have made a difference?” His eyes meet mine, more earnest than challenging.

“Of course it would,” I say. “I would’ve loved knowing I was getting an original Owen Carver design—not just standard renovation work.”

A hint of his almost-smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “There’s nothing standard about this renovation, Winslow.”

Winslow. The nickname slips out like muscle memory, and it warms something in my chest that’s been cold since the fight. It’s a small thing, but it cracks the wall between us.

“No, there isn’t,” I agree, smiling despite the tension still stretching between us. “Not least because the homeowner bought it drunk, and the contractor keeps quitting and coming back.”

“I didn’t quit,” he says, surprising me with the honesty in his voice. “I needed space.”

“You literally recommended another contractor,” I remind him, though without the bite that would’ve been there days ago.

“I was…” He pauses, searching. “Reactive.”

Coming from Owen, it’s practically a grand confession of emotional recklessness. I nod, accepting it. We fall into a pause, awkward but no longer unbearable, heavy with all the things neither of us knows how to say.

Then I see it—my box of postcards on the workbench, the lid open, cards fanned out in a burst of color. My breath catches.

“You found them,” I say, moving toward the box.

Owen nods, his expression softer now. “They fell during the storm. The box was wet. I was trying to dry them out.”

I reach the workbench and look down at my life, scattered in glossy rectangles—San Diego, Minneapolis, Chicago, Boston, Portland, L.A., and dozens of places in between. Some printed, some handmade. All written to myself.

“Did you read them?” I ask, already knowing the answer from his face.

“Some,” he says. “I didn’t realize what they were at first.”

I pick up the oldest one—a San Diego coastline. I wrote it at ten.

Dear Future Me, I hope you found somewhere that feels like yours. Still looking. —P.

“I’ve been sending myself postcards since I was a kid,” I explain, tracing the faded ink. “From every place I’ve lived or visited. It started when I was bouncing between my parents and never felt like I fully belonged anywhere.”

He steps closer, looking down at the collection. “They’re all addressed to you.”

“Messages to my future self. Reminders of where I’ve been.” I shuffle through them, showing him the arc from childish scrawl to teenage angst to careful adult lettering. “Some are just about the places. Others are… more personal.”

I hand him one from Chicago, college years:

Dear Future Me, Left another apartment today. Fourth one in two years. Mom says it’s wanderlust. Dad says instability. I think maybe I’m just afraid of what happens if I stay long enough for people to really see me. Still looking. —P.

Owen reads it, slow and thoughtful. Not judging. Just listening.

“You’ve been looking for home your whole life,” he says.

It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “Yes. And running from it at the same time.”

He hands the postcard back. Our fingers brush.

“Why?”

It’s a simple question that cuts clean to the center of everything. I look down at my postcards—proof of a life spent in motion—and answer with a truth I’ve never said aloud.

“Because I’ve always been afraid that if I stayed long enough, I’d find out I didn’t belong there either.

That I’d put down roots only to realize the soil wasn’t right.

Or worse, that I’d get asked to leave just when it started to feel like home.

” I meet his gaze, vulnerable but steady.

“It’s easier to leave first than to be left behind. ”

Something shifts in his expression—not just understanding, but recognition .

“So you keep one foot out the door. Always ready for the next move.”

“I did,” I say. “Until this place. Until…”

I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t need to. It lingers between us anyway.

Until you.

Owen is quiet for a long beat. His eyes flick from the postcards to the birdhouse on the window seat. When he finally speaks, his voice has that rare, unguarded texture I’ve only heard a few times before.

“I build things I don’t get to keep,” he says. “Houses for clients who move in after I leave. Birdhouses for birds that migrate with the seasons. Designs that stay in notebooks.”

“Because of your dad? The family business?”

He shakes his head. “That’s part of it. But it started before. I think I’ve always been more comfortable making homes for other people than claiming one for myself.”

The parallel lands hard. My whole life chasing home. His whole life building homes he doesn’t live in. Me afraid to stay. Him unable to leave. We’re not opposites—we’re reflections of the same broken pattern.

“We’re afraid of different things,” I say, the realization taking shape as I say it. “I run before I can be left. You stay even when you should move forward.”

He meets my eyes, and for once, neither of us looks away. “Different sides of the same wall.”

“Maybe that’s why this works,” I say, gesturing around the room, to the house, to us. “When it works. Your roots balance my wings.”

“When it works,” he echoes, that ghost of a smile flickering across his face.

We stand there, quiet for a moment. The air feels different—lighter. Not healed, not reset. But cleared, like the world after a storm.

“I should finish the roof repair,” Owen says, always practical, even in moments like this. “Storm front coming tomorrow.”

“I’ll help,” I offer. “I’ve been watching YouTube tutorials. I’m basically a pro now.”

That earns me an actual smile. “Was that what that patch job was?”

“Hey. I had limited resources and even more limited knowledge. It was structurally creative.”

“Creative is one word for it,” he says, the old rhythm returning, easy and familiar and missed.

We work the rest of the afternoon side by side, fixing storm damage like we’ve done a dozen times before—silent, seamless, connected. It’s not a full reconciliation. Not yet. But it’s something. A beginning. A frame to build on.

As the day fades, Owen packs up his tools. I walk him to the door, Finn trotting behind us like he knows this time, maybe, we’ll get it right.

“Will you come back tomorrow?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

He nods, his expression softer in the golden light. “The renovation isn’t finished.”

The words land with more weight than they carry. I smile, hearing what he doesn’t say.

“No, it isn’t. But the foundation’s solid now.”

“Still needs weatherproofing,” he adds, calling back to that old metaphor we never quite stopped building on.

“We’ll figure it out,” I say. And for the first time in days, I mean it.

After he’s gone, I return to the window seat, where the birdhouse catches the last bit of light. Beside it, I place the San Diego postcard—my first message to a future self I couldn’t have imagined.

The postcards told the story of a girl always searching for home .

The birdhouses told the story of a man always building homes for others.

…Maybe we weren’t so different after all.