Yes to the new TV proposal. Yes to staying in Maple Glen. Yes to a business, a partnership, a life.
I pull up the digital folder of my postcards. San Diego. Chicago. Portland. Places I passed through but never stayed. Tiny snapshots of all the almost-homes. But this one’s different, because this isn’t a place I’m passing through. No, this is the place I’m choosing to build. And I’m doing that,with him.
There’ssomething surreal about standing in a completed house that once tried to collapse beneath your feet. The transformation from disaster to dwelling happens so gradually when you’re in it—measuring twice and cutting once, debating window dimensions, sweating through insulation—that you almost miss the magic. But today, with morning light streaming through those hard-won windows and every surface finally, improbably finished, the before-and-after lands with physical force.
“I can’t believe this is the same place,” I say, running my hand along the smooth kitchen counter that replaced what used to be a tetanus trap masquerading as cabinetry. “Remember when you inspected it and basically told me to burn it down and start over?”
“The tasseled pillows remain under protest,” Owen says, that almost-smile playing at his lips again. “Final paperwork still needs filing. Permit inspection’s this afternoon.”
“And then it’s officially a real house,” I say, the words catching a little. Part pride, part disbelief that we pulled it off. “Not just a cautionary tale or social media stunt.”
“It’s been a real house for a while,” Owen says quietly. “Just needed the right person to see it.”
That lands harder than it should. We’re not just talking about the house, and we both know it.
He’s standing in the middle of the room, clipboard in hand,checking off his final inspection list with the focus of someone who sees both what is and what might go wrong. Dark gray henley, worn jeans, expression serious—it’s the version of Owen I’ve come to recognize as his default. Quiet. Exacting. Grounded.
“I remember saying it’d be cheaper to rebuild than renovate,” he adds without looking up.
“You did,” I say. “And I insisted we save what we could. Sentimental attachment to questionable structures.”
“Good thing one of us knew what they were doing,” he says, a flicker of amusement in his voice.
“The foundation work was worth it,” he adds, moving toward the window seat. “Solid bones underneath.”
I follow him, watching as he runs his fingers along the trim, checking seals and weatherstripping. The window seat—my line in the sand, the one thing I wouldn’t negotiate—ended up the heart of the house. Cushions in that perfect blue, storage underneath, a view of the woods framed like a painting.
“It’s perfect,” I say. “Better than anything I pictured when I drunkenly waved that auction paddle.”
Owen pauses, turning from the window to look at me. His expression shifts—less contractor, more... something else.
“It’s good work,” he says. “We did good work, Winslow.”
That name from him still gets me. From anyone else, it might sound like a joke. From Owen, it’s something else entirely. Something earned.
“We really did,” I say, moving to stand beside him. “Though I still think the tasseled pillows are doing most of the heavy lifting in here.”
“The tassels serve no functional purpose,” he says, falling back into our familiar script.
“They serve an emotional purpose,” I say. “They make me happy.”
“That’s a purpose I can accept.” His voice is quiet. His eyes don’t move from mine. “Your happiness here matters.”
I don’t say anything. I’m not sure I could if I tried.
Six months ago, I was writing press copy for a product I didn’t care about, living in a sterile apartment I never planned to stay in, already halfway out the door before I even moved in. And now, somehow, I’m here.
“The TV crew’s going to be impressed,” I say, steering us back toward safer ground. “Adele texted—they’ll be here tomorrow by noon. Should give us time for any final polish.”
Owen nods, refocusing on his checklist. “Electrical’s solid. Plumbing’s good. Roof should hold up to a category two hurricane.”
“Let’s not test it,” I say. “Just cameras and dramatic reveal shots.”
“It was plenty dramatic,” Owen says. “Especially in the beginning.”
“I prefer to call it ‘energetically innovative,’” I reply. “Speaking of, I still need to read through the final version of Adele’s contract. The expanded show idea has some fine print I should probably understand before I sign away my renovation soul.”
That gets a reaction—barely. A flicker of tension at the corner of his mouth. Anyone else would miss it. I’ve learned to read him too well to pretend I didn’t.
