Page 42 of This Love is Under Construction

There’s something quietly magical about morning light through windows you fought to include.

Not the dim hum of corporate fluorescents or the filtered glow of apartment blinds—but real, full-bodied sunlight pouring through glass you insisted on, despite all practical objections about heat loss and inefficient use of square footage.

The kind of light that turns floating dust into tiny galaxies and makes a plain wooden desk look like a catalog spread—no filter required.

I’m sitting at that desk now, tucked into the corner beside my hard-won window seat, laptop open to a marketing campaign I’m building for Mrs. Peterson’s ceramic studio.

The contrast hits me harder than expected: six months ago, I was writing polished nonsense about juice cleanses that promised transformation but mostly delivered digestive regret.

Now I’m helping a seventy-four-year-old artist with real talent reach customers beyond the Maple Glen farmers market.

The plants on the windowsill are alive—not the dusty corporate fakes from my LA office, but actual greenery that needs water and care.

My coffee is Marge’s blend, not some overpriced chain.

The walls are painted in shades I fought for, compromised on, or earned after long debates with a particularly stubborn carpenter.

My phone buzzes with a text from Abby:

T-minus 2 hours until TV fame! Are you going full fabulous or embracing your authentic renovation chic? And has Lumber Owen perfected his stoic-but-secretly-emotional on-camera face?

I grin and type back:

Authentic chic, of course. TV crew is bringing “touch-up” makeup which I’m sure won’t make me look like a wax figure. Also, CARPENTER Owen is pretending not to care while quietly worrying about his hair. It’s weirdly endearing.

She replies instantly:

Still can’t believe you’re actually living together in that tiny box. The woman who once needed a separate bathroom just for skincare. How many square feet again?

400. Beautifully designed, perfectly functional square feet. Plus the camper for emergency alone time. But we haven’t needed it yet. Turns out the right person makes a small space feel exactly right.

I set my phone down and return to Mrs. Peterson’s site.

Her whole collection is inspired by Maple Glen—each piece tied to a specific trail, field, or landmark, with a percentage of sales going to local conservation.

It’s the kind of story that used to get filtered out in meetings about “market breadth” and “brand clarity.”

“You need to be more practical,” Diana had told me once, fingers clacking against her tablet. “These emotional appeals are limiting our scalability.”

Back then, I winced. Now, I smile. She wasn’t wrong—for her world. But I was never built for that one. Sometimes it takes a disaster house purchased while drunk at a charity auction to realize where you actually belong.

I’m mid-adjustment on a product page when I hear the front door open. A kiss lands lightly on the top of my head before I even register that I’m no longer alone.

“Working already?” Owen asks, setting a coffee beside me and resting his hand briefly on my shoulder. “It’s barely seven.”

I lean back into his touch, tilting my head to look up. “Says the man who was probably hand-planing artisanal lumber at dawn.”

“Cabinet handles,” he says. The corner of his mouth lifts—his version of a smile. “Custom order for the Thompsons.”

“Ah, yes. The sacred Thompson handles that apparently can’t be sourced from a store like normal people.” I turn in my chair and accept the coffee with exaggerated reverence. “My hero. Delivering caffeine and handcrafted hardware to the masses.”

“Someone’s got to maintain standards.” He glances at my screen, zeroing in on the updated photos with his usual precision. “The glaze colors look better in this version.”

“Professional photography instead of iPhone pics under kitchen fluorescents,” I say. “Plus some light editing that doesn’t make her blue series look like it’s radioactive.”

“She’ll appreciate that. Her work deserves to be shown properly.” He moves toward the kitchen, Finn trotting after him in search of breakfast. “How’s the Richardson project?”

“Finalizing the logo today. They loved the concept—locally sourced timber with modern lines. It’s aligned with your last few builds.”

I swivel to watch him move around the kitchen, making coffee and feeding Finn with effortless rhythm. “Speaking of which—have you decided about the design school workshop?”

Owen pauses just briefly, back turned as he measures out coffee grounds. “Still considering it.”

Translation from Owen-speak to English: he wants to do it, but the idea of stepping into a teaching role makes him twitchy.

The invitation had come last week—an offer to lead a weekend workshop on innovative small-space design at a prestigious architecture school in Seattle.

The kind of recognition he deserves but has always quietly sidestepped.

“You should do it,” I say, keeping my tone easy even though I mean every word. “Your tiny house designs are exactly what they need—practical, innovative, sustainable, and actually beautiful. Plus, I could tag along, wander the city, scout new clients for Carver Custom Designs...”

“You just want better coffee shops,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. There’s the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth.

“A tragic but accurate reading of my motives.” I cross to the kitchen. “But seriously—you’d be incredible. They’d be lucky to learn from you.”

He doesn’t answer right away, focusing a little too intently on grinding coffee beans. “It would mean leaving Dad for the weekend. And rescheduling the Thompson install.”

“Your dad has therapy appointments scheduled through the next decade. He’ll be fine. Maggie has backup spreadsheets for her backup spreadsheets. And the Thompsons will survive a slight delay for something like this.”

He turns, eyes locked on mine. “You really think I should do it.”

“I think you should do whatever lights up that part of your brain I love watching when you’re sketching at midnight,” I say. “Cabinetry, tiny houses, teaching—whatever sparks it. I’ll be the one cheering way too loudly from the sidelines.”

His expression shifts. He reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, a gesture that still makes my breath catch.

“My impractical ideas are your favorite part of this house,” I remind him.

“Your impractical ideas are my favorite part of this house,” he says quietly. “The window seat. The reading nook. The ridiculous tasseled pillows that serve no purpose. ”

The words land deeper than I expect. Coming from Owen, it’s practically a love letter.

“I’m framing that the next time you veto my decorative vision board,” I say, stepping into his space. “Possibly in calligraphy.”

“I maintain that the copper pot rack is still excessive for someone with three pans,” he counters, sliding his arms around me.

“It adds vertical interest and creates an aspirational cooking environment,” I say, resting my hands on his chest. “You’re welcome.”

“Practically therapeutic,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

We stand there, tucked into our too-small kitchen like we were always meant to fit. Six months ago, this would’ve made me claustrophobic. Now, it feels like peace.

“The TV crew’ll be here by nine,” Owen says finally. “Adele sent a full shot list.”

“Part of my master plan to make you famous against your will.” I step back, grab my coffee. “Next year: your own flannel line and signature hammer.”

The horror on his face makes me laugh. “Relax. I negotiated ironclad privacy clauses. Your mysterious contractor aura is safe.”

“It’s not about privacy,” he mutters, distracted by the coffee again. “It’s about the work standing on its own. No distractions.”

“But people care about the story behind the work. That’s why the renovation posts resonated—because it wasn’t perfect. It was real.”

He makes a noise that means he knows I’m right but doesn’t want to admit it. “As long as they stick to the construction and design. Not... all the rest.”

“You mean our epic renovation romance that started with me drunkenly buying a house and you trying to condemn it?” I grin. His wince is everything. “Don’t worry. I’ve been clear—this is about Carver Custom Designs and small-space innovation. Not our love life.”

“Good,” he says, but I see his shoulders loosen.

I watch him move around the kitchen, comfortable and precise, and think how different this is from everything I knew before. With Tyler, everything had felt like performance—like we were always staging something. With Owen, there are no parts to play.

And just like that, I realize I haven’t checked Tyler’s social media in months. That “forever home” announcement that once hit like a sucker punch now reads like a press release from someone else’s life.

“What?” Owen asks, catching my look.

“Just thinking,” I say, smiling at him. “I used to think a ‘forever home’ meant a perfect person who had it all together. Move-in ready.”

“And now?” he asks, setting his coffee down, giving me his full attention.

“Now I think it’s about finding someone who wants to build with you. Someone who sees the cracks and leans in anyway.”

His gaze softens. “Renovation’s a lifelong job,” he says. “Maintenance never stops.”

“Good thing I’ve got an expert on call,” I say, matching his tone. “Foundation work is your specialty, after all.”

The moment holds. Then Finn bumps into Owen’s leg with the subtlety of a freight train, demanding breakfast.

I laugh, brushing Owen’s arm. “Apparently, some members of this household have unmet needs. I should finish Mrs. Peterson’s site before the cameras arrive.”

Owen nods, returning to the very serious business of dog feeding while I retreat to my desk by the window seat. The light has shifted—angled now, gold creeping across the floorboards of this impossible little home we built from disaster and determination.

Filming passes in a blur. Lights, mics, B-roll.

Adele Hutchinson’s relentless energy. They capture all the usual things—before-and-afters, interviews, glossy shots of clever design elements.

Owen stays true to form: quiet, reserved, but lights up the second someone asks about structural reinforcements or space-saving staircases.

I carry the narrative weight, telling the auction story with the same dry humor I’ve honed online.

By the time the crew packs up, the house smells like powder and camera equipment. Owen disappears the second they’re gone, vanishing to the workshop like he’s got a quota to hit before speaking to another person again.

I return to the window seat—still the best spot in the house—and open my postcard box.

It’s bigger now. San Diego. Minneapolis. Chicago. Boston. Portland. L.A. Cards from places I lived in but never belonged to. Proof of a life in motion. Always looking.

I pull out a blank Maple Glen card from Walt’s store (which for some reason stocks tourist gear despite being in a town that no tourist has ever accidentally found). The image on the front is from the Maple Festival—leaves in full color, town square aglow under the canopy.

I stare at the empty space on the back. It feels like a milestone, this one. The first card I’ll add from a place I’m not planning to leave.

Eventually, I write:

Dear Me,

This isn’t the end. This is the foundation.

The beginning of building something that lasts—not perfect, but strong enough to weather storms. Turns out home isn’t something you find.

It’s something you build, one stubborn beam at a time, with someone who hands you the right tools even when you won’t ask.

Not still looking,

Winslow

I set it on the sill to dry, next to the repaired birdhouse that’s somehow become part of our decor.

The front door creaks open. Finn barrels in first, Owen close behind. He looks more himself again—quiet, calm, shoulders back to their usual unbothered slope.

“Filming survival confirmed,” I announce as he drops into the window seat beside me. “No lasting trauma detected.”

“Debatable,” he mutters. “Adele wants more B-roll in the morning. Something about natural light.”

“Curse of having photogenic windows.” I nod at the postcard. “Started another one.”

He leans in, curious, picking it up with care. His eyes scan the message, and I see something shift behind them—something that says he gets it.

Then he pulls a folded slip of paper from his pocket and hands it to me.

It’s a hand-drawn postcard. He sketched it himself. The front is a perfect rendering of Winslow Cottage—crisp lines, soft shading, somehow architectural and personal all at once.

The back reads:

Dear Me,

I didn’t think I could build anything new. Then she showed up in platform sandals and ruined everything. Thank God.

–O.C .

I look up at him, stunned.

“When did you?—”

“Last night,” he says. “Thought it should be part of the collection.”

I run my thumb along the edge of the card. “It’s perfect.”

We place it beside mine, the two cards angled on the sill—his precise and quiet, mine rambling and too full. It’s exactly us.

The house is still, the golden hour making the floor glow. Finn curls at our feet, tail thumping once before going still.

“Look,” Owen says, nodding toward the window.

Two birds are perched on the repaired birdhouse outside. One darts in with a twig in its beak. The other waits.

“They’re nesting,” I say.

“In the one you fixed.”

We sit, watching as the birds come and go, quietly building. Owen slides his fingers into mine.

“Took them a while to find it,” he says. “But they came back.”

“Like us.”

He squeezes my hand. We keep watching.

“They knew where to come home to,” he says.

And this time, I don’t have to say anything. Trust, after all, isn’t loud. It’s built in layers. In routines. In showing up. In staying.

We sit, two people in a tiny house that somehow never feels too small. The birdhouse shelters something new now. So do we.