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 bubblingup 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.
I glance down at my outfit—leggings and an oversized sweater. Fine for eating pie in a window seat, less fine for meeting a contractor who already thinks I’m a walking liability.
I change quickly into jeans and a long-sleeved tee, tug on my hiking boots, and toss my laptop, notebook, and paperwork into a canvas tote.
Downstairs, Marge is elbow-deep in dough.
“Off to face the tiny house?” she asks, glancing up with a knowing smile.
“And the tiny house’s keeper,” I reply. “Owen’s bringing paperwork.”
“Ah, the official beginning.” She nods. “Take these.” She gestures to a paper bag on the counter. “Maple scones. Still warm. Construction runs on sugar and caffeine.”
I take the bag, touched despite myself. “Thanks, Marge. For everything.”
“Just doing my part to help you win me fifty dollars in the betting pool,” she says with a wink. “I’ve got you lasting until Thanksgiving.”
I laugh, oddly flattered. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”
“That’s all any of us can do, dear.” She turns back to the dough, humming softly. “That’s all any of us can do.”
Owen’s truckis already at the property when I arrive, parked in the same spot as yesterday. He’s standing near the front porch, jotting notes in a small notebook, a pencil tucked behind one ear. He looks up as my rental crunches over gravel, his expression unreadable.
