“Which is never.”
“Rarely,” he amends. “The business is constant. Dad still needs care. And there’s always a deadline.”
“Like the birdhouses?” I say lightly, hoping not to push too far.
His mouth flattens. “Blake talks too much.”
“Everyone in this town talks too much. Except you.”
That earns me a flicker of a smile. “Someone has to balance it out.”
We work in silence again, the playlist shifting to something slow and atmospheric. The coffee in our thermos has gone lukewarm, but we drink it anyway, chasing energy more than flavor.
Then Owen surprises me again. “What about you? How’d you end up in PR?”
I glance over. “Doesn’t seem like a natural fit for someone who values authenticity,” I echo, repeating his earlier observation. “That was... oddly perceptive.”
“I pay attention,” he says simply.
“It wasn’t the plan,” I admit. “I studied communications and creative writing. Thought I’d work in publishing, maybe journalism.”
“What changed?”
“Reality. Student loans. Rent.” I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “PR paid better. I was good at it—shaping stories, crafting narratives. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being storytelling and started being spin. And spin is just a nice way of saying ‘lies.’”
He nods, quiet for a beat. “So this house—was it your escape or your solution?”
“Both. Neither. I don’t know.” I steady a beam while he drills into place. “It was impulsive. But it felt like the first decision I made that wasn’t about someone else’s expectations.”
“Authentic decisions aren’t always rational,” he says.
“Says the guy who triple-checks every cut before he makes it.”
“In construction,” he clarifies. “Life’s messier.”
That makes me laugh. “You’re full of surprises tonight. Is this what happens when you work pastyour bedtime?”
“Fatigue lowers filters.”
“Well, I should take advantage while I can.” I stretch my back, then smile. “So... did you always want to build things? Or was it the family legacy talking?”
He thinks for a second. “Both. I was drawing house plans before I could spell ‘architecture.’ Dad noticed early. Put a hammer in my hand at six.”
I grin. “Tiny Owen with a toolbelt. Please tell me there are photos.”
“There are,” he says with resignation. “Maggie has them all.”
“She’s probably digitized them already.”
“God help me.”
We work a little longer, our voices soft now, like the quiet is something we don’t want to break.
“Were you a serious kid?” I ask.
“I was practical,” he says. “Maggie was the dreamer.”
“Every family needs one of each,” I say, thinking of my own parents—artistic, unreliable mother; practical, distant father. “I bounced between extremes growing up. Mom in San Diego was all spontaneity and creative chaos. Dad in Minneapolis was schedules and sensible planning.”
