Page 6 of This Love is Under Construction

The sunrise in Maple Glen doesn’t creep—it ambushes. One moment, the world is wrapped in predawn gray; the next, light spills over the mountains like someone flipped a cosmic switch, painting everything in gold.

I’m sitting on the hood of my rental car, second cup of gas station coffee cradled in my hands, watching the transformation unfold across my disaster of a property.

Yesterday’s storm has cleared, leaving the air scrubbed clean and the grass beaded with dew.

Steam rises off the ground as the sun warms the earth, casting a misty halo around the tiny house.

My tiny house.

In this light—without the apocalyptic rain and crushing disappointment of first sight—I can see.

.. something. Not potential exactly. I’m not that delusional.

But possibility. The clearing is bigger than I realized, wildflowers dotting the edges where yard meets forest. Through the trees, I catch a glimpse of a mountain ridge that was hidden behind yesterday’s downpour.

And the house itself, while still an OSHA nightmare, has a charm in its weathered blue siding and pitched roof that’s hard to ignore.

“This could be something,” I say out loud, testing the words. They don’t feel entirely convincing—but they’re not completely ridiculous either.

I slide off the hood and start a slow loop around the property, coffee in one hand, phone in the other.

The land is beautiful—a quarter acre of mostly cleared space hugged by towering pines and maples.

The ground is still soggy, but I’m grateful for the hiking boots I panic-bought at the outlet mall.

An upgrade from yesterday’s platform sandal fiasco.

At the back of the property, I find a small stream carving through the treeline, bubbling over rocks and disappearing into the forest. It’s almost offensively picturesque—like the universe is trying to apologize for handing me a collapsing roof and probable black mold.

I stop at the far corner and turn to face the house.

From here, with the sun hitting just right, I see not what it is—but what it could be.

Not a rotting shed with a stripper-name nickname, but something small and solid.

A place that could reflect the person I want to become, instead of the one I’ve been performing.

I’ve spent my adult life on the run. New city, new job, new me—any time things got hard. I’m the human equivalent of a commitment-phobic boyfriend, as Walt so eloquently implied.

But maybe this is the thing I don’t run from. Maybe this disaster is exactly what I need: a project I can’t easily abandon. A commitment I’ve accidentally, but thoroughly, married.

I pull out my phone and open the camera. Before I can overthink it, I snap a photo of the house—bathed in gold light, steam rising like a fairy tale if fairy tales included rot and rusty nails.

“I could run again,” I say to the empty clearing. “Or I could finally build something real.”

My phone buzzes.

Abby:

Morning check-in! Still alive or eaten by bears?

I smile and type back:

Alive. No bears. Making a potentially life-altering decision while drinking gas station coffee in mud.

Her reply is immediate:

Those are the BEST kind. Spill.

I glance back at the house, then down at the photo I just took. Something in me settles, like puzzle pieces finally locking into place.

I’m staying. Going to renovate this disaster and see it through.

Typing it makes it real. Hitting send feels even better.

The typing dots appear, vanish, reappear. Then:

OMG YES!!! Project Penny Finds Roots!!! I’m booking a visit once you have running water and fewer tetanus risks.

Her enthusiasm hits me harder than expected—warm and grounding, like a hug through the phone.

Have you told your boss yet? Or your dad?

Cue immediate cortisol spike.

The mention of Diana sends a shock through my system. In all the chaos, I’ve barely processed being fired. The severance email is still sitting in my inbox, unsigned.

Not yet. Dad knows I’m here but thinks it’s temporary insanity. Boss fired me, remember?

Technically, you still need to sign the severance. Perfect time to negotiate remote work if you want to keep a foot in LA.

I consider that for approximately two seconds.

Nope. Clean break. New chapter. Tiny house, huge feelings.

YESSSSS. Proud of you, Pen. Terrified for your sanity, but proud.

I pocket my phone and take another sip of coffee, now lukewarm but still strangely satisfying. The decision feels right—solid in a way few of my decisions ever have. I’m staying. Committing. Building something real.

And if I fail spectacularly?

At least I won’t have run. Not this time.

I raise my coffee in a toast to the house. “Here’s to terrible decisions and the stubborn idiots who see them through.”

Back at Marge’s B&B, I set up my laptop on the window seat and do what I’ve always done best: shape a narrative.

Step one: a polite, firm email to Diana accepting my termination and negotiating a slightly better severance. Five years of writing persuasive messaging for clients, finally used to advocate for myself.

Step two: call my father. Brace for lecture.

“I’ve decided to stay,” I tell him, catching him between meetings. “Long enough to renovate the house properly.”

There’s a pause. Then a sigh heavy with subtext.

“Penny, do you even understand what you’ve gotten into? Renovation is expensive. It’s time-consuming. It requires skills you don’t have.”

“I’m aware of my limitations,” I say, shocking myself with how calm I sound. “That’s why I hired a contractor. Labor’s at cost. I’ve been researching materials.”

“And your job? Your apartment?”

“I was fired. The day after the auction.”

“And you didn’t lead with that?”

“I sublet the apartment to Abby’s friend.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“I see.”

“Dad, I know this seems impulsive?—”

“It doesn’t seem impulsive, Penny. It is impulsive. Like the ceramics studio. And the food blog. And the?—”

“I know. ” The familiar tightness creeps into my chest. “I know I’ve started a lot of things I didn’t finish. But this is different.”

“How?”

Because I can’t afford to leave. Not financially, not emotionally.

“Because this time, I need to prove I can see something through,” I say. “Even if it’s just to myself.”

The silence stretches between us, filled with years of unfinished projects and disappointed expectations.

“Well,” he finally says, his tone softer than I expected, “you’ve always been stubborn when you set your mind to something. Just… be careful with your remaining savings. And read every contract twice.”

It’s not exactly a ringing endorsement, but from my practically pathological father, it’s practically a blessing.

“I will. Thanks, Dad.”

After we hang up, I sit in the quiet, letting it sink in: I’ve officially committed. No safety net. No backup plan. Just me, a disaster of a house, and a town full of people already placing bets on how fast I’ll give up.

Speaking of which...

On impulse, I open Instagram and create a new account. Not my personal one—filled with carefully curated brunches and perfectly edited sunsets—but something new. Something real.

Username: @ThisLoveIsUnderConstruction

Bio: Tiny house, huge mistake? PR girl buys disaster property sight unseen. Follow along as I renovate this mess—and maybe myself in the process. Maple Glen, WA.

For my first post, I upload the photo I took that morning—my tiny house haloed in mist and sunlight, looking deceptively serene. I stare at it a moment before typing :

Day 1 of the rest of my questionable decisions.

Meet the “Sequin Shack” (local nickname, not my choice): a 400 sq ft tiny house with big problems and zero functional systems. Bought drunk at a charity auction because my ex got engaged and my boss said I was “too emotional for leadership.” Pretty sure this proves her point.

#TinyHouseHugeFeelings #ThisLoveIsUnderConstruction #SendHelp #AndLumber

I hit post before I can talk myself out of it, then immediately close the app. It’s one thing to commit privately. It’s another to document the whole mess online—for strangers, for friends, for myself .

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe sharing the process, flaws and all, will keep me honest. Accountable. Rooted.

I check my inbox and blink. Diana has already replied—severance accepted with minimal pushback. Just like that, I’m officially unemployed. Untethered from the life I’d built for the last five years.

It should feel terrifying.

Instead, it feels like setting down a suitcase I didn’t realize I’d been dragging behind me.

My phone buzzes—an Instagram notification. Then another. Then three more. I open the app and find comments already appearing:

@ReclaimedSpaces: From one renovation disaster to another—can’t wait to follow this journey! The bones look promising!

@TinyLivingBig: That VIEW though! The house needs work, but the setting is fire!

@DIYDisasterQueen: Welcome to the “what have I done” club! It gets better! (After it gets worse lol)

I stare at the screen, something unfamiliar bubbling up in my chest.

Hope?

Or maybe something adjacent to purpose.

I’ve spent years helping clients tell “authentic” stories about products that weren’t. Maybe it’s time I tell an actual story. One that’s messy and personal and real.

My phone buzzes again—but this time, it’s a text from an unknown number:

Arriving at property in 30 min with paperwork and initial timeline. –Owen Carver

My heart skips, then immediately overcompensates by racing.

Owen.

The stoic contractor with forearms that should have their own zip code. The man who looked at my house like it personally offended him—and at me like I was a human cautionary tale in designer boots.

I text back:

I’ll be there. Coffee preferences?

His response is as concise and emotionally rich as I’ve come to expect:

Black. No need.

Of course he drinks it black. Probably while chopping wood shirtless at sunrise and scowling at inefficiency.