His brow lifts.Investment.
Not a question. But itfeelslike one.
“Yes. My tiny house. Which is...” I gesture vaguely at the collapsing structure behind me. “Rustic.”
He climbs the stairs like he’s testing them for failure—which is fair, because step two groans under his weight like it’s about to unionize.
“Mind if I take a look?” he asks.
“Be my guest,” I say, stepping aside. “Mi casa es su death trap.”
He moves inside, assessing everything with quiet precision—walls, floors, cabinets. He opens the bathroom door, flinches slightly, then makes a note in the small notebook he pulls from his back pocket.
“The listing said it needed TLC,” I offer.
He doesn’t look up. “Foundation’s unstable. Roof needs full replacement. Electrical’s ancient, assuming it works. Plumbing—” he pauses, grim—”is probably not up to code. And there’s likely mold.”
Each word lands like a slap.
“But it’s fixable, right? That’s why you’re here. The renovation package.”
Owen looks up at me.
“Technically, anything’s fixable. With enough time and money.”
“Great! So we?—”
“It’d be cheaper to tear it downand start over.”
Another leak springs from the ceiling, water plopping between us like punctuation.
“Oh,” I say. Small. Hollow.
He glances up, then back at me. His face is unreadable. “The auction house should’ve disclosed the damage. This isn’t a renovation. It’s a rebuild.”
“But you’ll still... do it, right? The labor’s included.”
He studies me, and I suddenly regret every life choice that led to standing in front of a hot contractor while soaked, shaking, and sinking—both literally and financially.
“I’ll need to do a proper assessment,” he says finally. “See what’s salvageable. But it won’t be fast. And it won’t be cheap.”
“I understand,” I lie. Because I don’t. Not even a little.
Another drop hits my head, but I pretend it’s just rain. Not panic. Not defeat.
“I’ll wait in my car,” I say, abruptly. “While you... assess.”
I don’t wait for his response. I just turn and walk off the porch, careful not to slip. Behind me, the house looms. Broken. Quiet. Waiting.
In the relativesanctuary of my rental car, I finally let myself fall apart. Not a full meltdown—I’m saving that for when I’m not being watched by a stoic contractor with judgmental eyebrows—but enough that I have to dig through my purse for tissues.
“What was I thinking?” I whisper, watching Owen through the windshield as he circles the house, still assessing the exterior with quiet, methodical attention. “Seventy-five thousand dollars for a glorified garden shed with commitment issues.”
I reach into the backseat for my “essentials” box—the one thing I couldn’t bring myself to leave in storage. It’s labeledKITCHENin Sharpie, but it holds exactly zero kitchen items. Instead, it’s packed with survival gear: my favorite coffee mug, aframed photo of me and Abby from college, a dog-eared copy ofThe Secret History, and a shoebox full of postcards.
I lift the lid and run my fingers over the collection—postcards from every move, every maybe-home I’ve had. Some were gifts. Some I found in dusty gas station racks or museum gift shops. Each one a little love letter to nowhere.
From the bottom, I pull out the oldest—an image of the San Diego coastline, the colors faded with time. I flip it over.
