Page 9 of This Love is Under Construction

The thing no one warns you about in small towns is the silence. Not peaceful, birds-chirping silence—I mean conversation-stopping, head-turning silence. The kind that happens the second you walk into a room and everyone suddenly remembers they have urgent, meaningful staring to do.

Owen, who walked in three seconds ahead of me, doesn’t seem to notice the social temperature drop. He nods at two guys near the paint section who immediately lean into a whisper. I catch fragments— ”auction house” and “Sequin Shack” —before they dissolve into badly suppressed snickers.

“Ignore them,” Owen murmurs, not looking back. “Small town entertainment.”

“And here I thought I left the fishbowl behind when I quit PR,” I mutter, following him down an aisle stocked with items that appear organized by vibe rather than category.

Garden hoses dangle over electrical outlets.

A display of work gloves is next to a stack of scented candles labeled Maple Glen Forest, which I assume smells like pine, rain, and judgment.

We’re here for foundation supplies—concrete, reinforcement rods, and a slew of intimidating items Owen texted me at 6:15 AM in spreadsheet form. Ever since we learned my house was essentially sitting on rotting toothpicks, we’ve pivoted hard to complete foundation reconstruction.

“ Owen Carver! ” Walt’s voice booms from behind the counter, where he’s busy sorting twelve versions of what look like the exact same screw. “Right on time, as always.”

“Walt.” Owen nods, expression softening ever so slightly. “Got my order ready?”

“Been pulling it since dawn. Your dad called it in last night.” Walt walks around the counter, surprisingly spry for someone who might predate the store itself. He claps Owen on the shoulder with the kind of affection reserved for family or very long tabs. “How’s he doing today?”

“Better. PT’s helping.”

It’s short, but not brusque. I file that away— Owen’s father, recovering, physical therapy. The Carver puzzle gets another piece.

Walt turns to me next, eyes twinkling with undisguised curiosity. “And Ms. Winslow! Surprised to see you still in town. Most auction house buyers are gone before the first weekend.”

“I’m not most people,” I say, trying for confidence. Three customers in the paint aisle are now openly watching our exchange like it’s daytime television.

“Clearly not.” Walt grins. “You’ve got the whole town buzzing. Doris at The Griddle says the betting pool’s up to five hundred bucks.”

“Walt,” Owen warns.

Walt waves him off. “She might as well know. Transparency and all that.” He winks at me. “Don’t worry—I’ve got you lasting ‘til Thanksgiving. Marge says Christmas.”

“Ambitious,” I deadpan. “What’s the popular bet?”

“First frost,” Walt admits. “Though that’s shifting.”

Owen clears his throat. “The supplies, Walt?”

“Right, right.” He gestures toward the back. “Maggie’s pulling the rest. Got most of it in already.” He pushes through a door marked Employees Only. “Foundation work, huh? That bad? ”

“Worse,” Owen confirms. “Complete rebuild.”

Walt lets out a low whistle. “No wonder the last three owners bailed.”

“I’m not running,” I say quickly, surprising even myself a little. “I mean, I’ve considered it as a general life strategy, but not because of some rotting lumber and... uh—what are the beam things called again?”

“Floor joists,” Owen supplies.

“Those,” I nod. “The foundation’s fixable. We’re fixing it.”

Walt and Owen exchange a look I can’t read. Then Walt chuckles. “Well, I’ll be. Maybe Marge will win that bet after all.”

We step into the back stockroom, which is somehow both chaotically full and impressively organized.

A young woman with dark hair in a messy ponytail is checking items off a clipboard.

She looks up—and there’s no mistaking the resemblance.

Same sharp cheekbones. Same gray-blue eyes. Same quiet intensity.

“Got everything except the galvanized brackets,” she says. “Delivery’s Thursday.”

“Maggie,” Owen says with a nod that says everything and nothing.

“Big brother,” she replies with a grin, then turns to me with interest. “You must be the famous Penny. The whole town’s talking about you.”

“So I’ve noticed,” I reply, feeling my cheeks warm. “Apparently bad real estate decisions are Maple Glen’s new spectator sport.”

She laughs. “Are you kidding? The biggest news last month was Mrs. Peterson’s cat getting stuck in the same tree for the third time. You’re practically a celebrity.”

“Maggie,” Owen says, tone weary.

She waves him off. “Relax, I’m being nice. It’s refreshing to have someone shake things up. Especially someone who’s actually staying to fix that place instead of fleeing the second the roof creaks. ”

“The foundation’s... conceptually salvageable,” I say, catching Owen’s eye. “The land’s pretty. The view’s nice. The trees aren’t judgmental.”

“You’ve really sold me,” Maggie says dryly. I decide instantly that I like her.

“I’m workshopping slogans. So far I’ve got: ‘Tiny house. Huge tetanus risk.’”

That earns an actual laugh from her. Even Owen’s mouth twitches.

Walt gestures toward the collection of materials. “This is the first round. You’ll need more once you start removing what’s left of the original foundation. Good call on those custom support beams, Owen. Standard stock wouldn’t have worked on that grade.”

“The property’s got slope issues,” Owen agrees, inspecting a bundle of lumber with the air of someone who’s never surprised and never improvises.

“That’s one way to put it,” Maggie mutters.

I wander toward a row of window displays near the back—frames mounted with different glass options, catching the morning light in geometric prisms. Ever since yesterday’s demo, we’ve been talking about not just rebuilding what was there, but reimagining it.

That means decisions. And light is on my wishlist.

“These are nice,” I say, running a hand along the edge of a wide picture window. “Imagine all the light that would pour in.”

Owen glances over. “Too large. Too much heat loss.”

“But the view,” I argue. “Trees. Stream. It’d be like living inside a forest painting.”

“It’d be like heating the outdoors.”

“We can’t all be emotionally invested in insulation R-values.”

“Structural before aesthetic,” he says, examining a sheet of specs. “Windows later.”

“I know. Foundation first,” I sigh. “But when we do get to windows, I want light. I want the inside to feel like outside, just without the bugs and bears.”

Walt chuckles. “Sounds like you two’ve got some design negotiations ahead.”

“‘Negotiations’ implies equal input,” I say, shooting Owen a look.

“Input is proportional to experience,” he replies without missing a beat.

From behind a shelf, Maggie makes a sound suspiciously like a laugh. “This,” she murmurs, “is going to be fun. ”

The window debate continues in the truck on the way back to the property, supplies loaded in the bed and tension simmering in the cab. I’ve spent the last ten minutes advocating for what Owen calls “excessive glazing” and what I call “basic human need for vitamin D.”

“All I’m saying is that windows are about more than just practical light,” I argue as we bump down the gravel road toward the tiny house. “They’re about connection to the outside world. Perspective. Being able to see beyond your immediate surroundings.”

“They’re also about heat loss, security, and structural integrity,” Owen counters, tone patient but firm. “Especially in a small space where every square foot matters.”

“Which is exactly why the quality of that space matters even more,” I persist. “I want a window seat. Specifically, in the living area, facing west toward the stream and those big trees.”

Owen glances at me, expression shifting from professional disagreement to something more curious. “A window seat.”

“Yes. A proper one. Built-in, with storage underneath and enough room to actually sit comfortably.” I can see it so clearly in my mind—a cozy nook with cushions, shelves for books, a place to watch the sunset through the trees. “I want somewhere to sit and watch the world without being in it.”

The cab goes quiet as he processes that. When he speaks again, his tone is different—less technical, more careful. “That’s wasted space in a tiny house. Every square foot needs to be functional.”

“It would be functional. Multi-functional, even. Seating, storage, natural light. And it would be...” I trail off, struggling to articulate why this matters so much. “It would be a sanctuary. A place just for existing—not doing.”

Owen pulls up to the house and parks, but doesn’t get out. He turns fully toward me, those gray-blue eyes studying me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm.

“You’re serious about this,” he says finally.

“Deadly serious. Window-seat-or-death serious. I will die on this weirdly specific hill.”

“Why?” The question is simple. Direct. And it lands.

I look away, suddenly uncomfortable with how much this reveals. “Because I’ve spent my whole life either performing or running. I want a place where I can just... be . Where I can see everything but have a little corner that’s mine. Protected but not isolated.”

The silence stretches between us, heavy with implications neither of us is ready to unpack. Finally, Owen nods once.

“I’ll consider it in the plans. But the foundation comes first.”

It’s not a yes. But it’s not a no either. And from Owen Carver, that’s practically enthusiastic agreement.

“Thank you,” I say, and mean it. “I know it seems trivial compared to, you know, making sure the house doesn’t collapse. ”

“It’s not trivial,” he says, surprising me. “It’s your home. It should reflect what matters to you.”

That hits harder than I expect. My home. Not just a house. Not just a project. A home. The word feels foreign, like trying on someone else’s clothes.