Page 33 of This Love is Under Construction

There’s a particular energy that comes with having absolutely nothing to lose.

It’s not desperation—though that’s certainly in the mix—but something adjacent to freedom.

When you’ve already faced your worst fear (someone walking away) and survived it (barely, dramatically, with questionable coping mechanisms), the paralysis of potential failure dissolves into something more productive: determination.

This explains why I’ve transformed Marge’s cozy breakfast nook into what looks like a war room for an impending tiny house revolution.

Papers cover every available surface—market research on the tiny house industry, printouts of Owen’s designs from photos I sneakily took of his notebook, sample business plans, and enough sticky notes to wallpaper a small bathroom.

My laptop sits at the center of this chaos, surrounded by three empty tea mugs that Marge keeps refilling without comment.

“Both?” I look up from my spreadsheet of tiny house market projections, blinking like someone emerging from a cave. “I’m either having a breakthrough or a breakdown. The line is surprisingly thin.”

Marge sets down the refreshments and surveys my paper explosion with the calm assessment of someone who’s witnessed many life crises unfold at her breakfast table. “Want to tell me what all this is about? Besides the obvious.”

“The obvious being…?”

“You trying to win back my favorite grumpy carpenter through the power of excessive documentation.” She picks up one of my papers—a particularly aggressive analysis of why small-space design is the future of sustainable housing.

“Though I must say, this is more elaborate than the betting pool anticipated.”

I should be surprised that Marge knows exactly what I’m doing, but this is Maple Glen, where privacy is a theoretical concept observed primarily in bathrooms (and even then, subject to discussion if your water usage seems suspicious).

“The betting pool has scenarios for relationship reconciliation strategies?”

“Oh, honey,” Marge pats my hand with grandmotherly condescension, “there’s an entire subsection with odds. ‘Grand gesture involving power tools’ is currently the favorite at 3-to-1.”

I snort, reaching for a scone. “No power tools in this plan. Just strategic application of skills I actually possess—unlike home repair.”

“PR expertise,” Marge nods, examining another document. “You’re creating a business plan.”

“Not just any business plan,” I say, pulling up the presentation I’ve been crafting since dawn.

“A comprehensive proposal for Carver Custom Designs—a high-end tiny house design and consultation firm specializing in innovative small-space solutions with an emphasis on sustainability and architectural integrity.”

Marge blinks at me. “That’s quite a mission statement.”

“It’s what Owen should be doing instead of installing kitchen cabinets for vacation homes,” I explain, warming to my subject.

“He’s a designer, Marge. A genuinely talented architectural mind who’s been hiding his creativity under the practical contractor persona because of family obligations and small-town expectations. ”

“I’ve known Owen since he was eight years old,” Marge says thoughtfully. “Always building things, always with that notebook. His mother used to say he designed his first treehouse with proper architectural elevations.”

“Exactly! But he gave it all up when his dad got sick, came back to take over the family business, and buried his real passion.” I gesture to my research.

“But the market for custom tiny house design is exploding. There’s this whole movement toward intentional small-space living, and his designs are exactly what people are looking for—functional but beautiful, practical but innovative. ”

“And you’re going to convince him of this with…” Marge waves at the chaos around us.

“Data. Market research. A concrete business plan. And most importantly, proof that I’m not going anywhere.

” I meet her eyes, suddenly serious. “That’s what this is really about, Marge.

Everyone in his life who matters has either left or needed him to stay exactly where he is.

His ex-fiancée left when small-town life wasn’t exciting enough.

His father’s illness forced him to abandon his own dreams. He’s spent years putting everyone else’s needs above his own creative fulfillment. ”

“And you want to change that,” Marge says, the understanding settling between us. “This isn’t just about winning him back. It’s about giving him permission to want more.”

“It’s about showing him we can build something together that honors both our strengths.

” I turn my laptop to show her the presentation slides.

“His design vision, my marketing skills. His roots in this community, my connections in larger markets. His practical knowledge, my completely impractical enthusiasm.”

Marge studies the slides, her expression softening. “This is quite something, Penny. Not just the plan, but what it represents.”

“I know it might not work,” I admit, vulnerability slipping in through the cracks.

“He might not be ready to take this risk. Or he might not want to take it with me. But I have to try. Because for the first time in my life, I don’t want to run away when things get complicated. I want to build something that lasts.”

Marge squeezes my shoulder, her eyes suspiciously bright. “Well, you’re not doing it alone. This town has more invested in you two than just the betting pool.”

“What do you mean?”

Her smile turns cryptic. “Finish your presentation. Then we’ll talk about the Maple Glen Renovation Conspiracy.”

By mid-afternoon, I’ve transformed my paper tornado into a proper, professional business proposal. It’s tight, confident, and balanced—hard market data paired with aspirational vision. Exactly what I would’ve pitched to clients back in my PR days, only this time, I believe every word.

The presentation flows from market analysis (the tiny house industry has grown 67% in five years), to the competitive landscape (very few designers specialize in high-end custom solutions), to Owen’s unique value proposition (architectural training + hands-on build experience = magic).

I’ve included modified versions of his sketches—just enough to show potential, without overstepping.

The financials are conservative, the roadmap realistic. Start with consultation services. Expand into custom designs. Eventually build a small portfolio. I even mapped out a phased exit strategy from the family business—because I know Owen, and I know he’ll need a slow ramp, not a leap.

The last few slides focus on risk mitigation—backup plans, low-capital entry, side-by-side comparisons with similar business models.

It’s not just a pitch. It’s reassurance.

Because that’s what this really is: a love letter written in bullet points and projections, designed to convince a man who avoids risk that this leap might be worth it.

“This is actually impressive,” I say to my reflection in the laptop screen, caught off guard by my own work. “Like, actual business-plan impressive. Not just ‘please love me’ disguised in PowerPoint.”

My phone buzzes. A text from Abby.

Status update required IMMEDIATELY. Has Operation Win Back Grumpy Carpenter commenced? Has he succumbed to your chaotic charm? Is Finn playing matchmaker? I NEED DETAILS.

I reply:

Currently creating comprehensive business plan for custom tiny house design firm highlighting his architectural talent and our complementary skills. Because nothing says ‘please love me’ like market analysis and five-year financial projections.

Her response:

This is simultaneously the most romantic and most ON brAND thing you’ve ever done. I’m so proud. Also slightly concerned. But mostly proud.

I smile, tucking the phone away as Marge reappears in the doorway.

“Ready for phase two?” she asks, like she’s inviting me into a secret operation.

“Phase two?”

“The community support rally,” she says, completely serious. “Walt’s waiting for us at the hardware store.”

Maple Hardware looks exactly as it always has—narrow aisles crammed with everything from specialty screws to fishing tackle, the persistent smell of metal and wood, and Walt Henderson presiding over it all from behind the counter like some small-town oracle.

What’s different today is his expression when I walk in—less gruff assessment, more conspiratorial welcome.

“There she is,” he announces, setting aside the catalog he was reviewing. “The woman with the plan.”

I glance at Marge, who shrugs innocently. “I may have mentioned your project while picking up my mail this morning.”

“Which was apparently enough time for the entire town to be briefed,” I observe, noticing several other customers watching our exchange with poorly disguised interest.

Walt waves away my concern. “Small towns. No secrets. Especially when it involves the two most interesting people to hit Maple Glen since that celebrity chef got lost on his way to Seattle and spent three days teaching Dorothy Johnson how to make risotto.”

“That’s… a very specific comparison,” I say, approaching the counter. “But I’m not here about town gossip. I need to talk to you about materials for the house. I’m trying to finish enough to make the TV deadline, and?—”

“Already handled,” Walt interrupts, pulling out a sheet of paper. “I’ve put together a package of everything you’ll need to complete the interior finishes. At cost.”

I stare at him. “At cost? Walt, that’s incredibly generous, but?—”

“Not generous. Strategic.” He taps the paper with a gnarled finger. “You make that TV deadline, Maple Glen gets national exposure. Tourism increases. My hardware store sells more decorative mailboxes to city folks wanting the ‘authentic small-town experience.’ Everybody wins.”