Eventually, hunger forces me into town. My camper fridge holds only mustard and regrets, so I head to The Griddle for takeout.
I tell myself I’m not looking for them.
But the moment I walk in, I see them.
Corner booth. Blueprints spread between them. She says something and he laughs—an actual, full-faced laugh that lights up his whole expression.
And it hits me, hard and stupid, that I’ve only ever seen him laugh like that a handful of times. But never with me.
She reaches across the table to point at something on the drawings, her hand briefly touching his arm in a gesture that speaks of comfortable familiarity. Owen doesn’t pull away.
Something twists in my chest—a sharp, unexpected ache that has nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the scene in front of me. I stand frozen near the entrance, suddenly unsure why I came. The logical part of my brain insists this is nothing—colleagues reviewing project plansover dinner. But another part, the one I’ve been trying hard to ignore, recognizes this as something else.
They have history. Connection. A shared language I can’t match, no matter how many construction terms I’ve crammed into my brain. They make sense together in a way Owen and I—with our constant friction and messy middle ground—never could.
“Penny!” Doris’s voice cuts through my spiral. “You need a table, hon? Or takeout?”
I tear my eyes away from the booth, hoping neither of them noticed me staring. “Takeout, please. Just a sandwich to go.”
“Coming right up,” Doris says, then adds gently, “You okay, sweetheart? You look a little pale.”
“Fine,” I reply, managing a smile that feels thin. “Just tired from the renovation marathon.”
While I wait, I keep my back to the corner booth, pretending to check messages while opening random apps just to look occupied. My chest still aches with that strange, sharp feeling I refuse to name.
It’s not jealousy. It can’t be. That would break Rule #8—and worse, it would mean admitting feelings I’m not ready to face.
When my sandwich arrives, I practically bolt, not risking another glance at the corner booth. The cool night air clears my head slightly as I walk to my car, clutching the paper bag like it might shield me from everything I don’t want to feel.
Back at the camper, I eat mechanically, barely tasting the food. My mind replays the image of Owen laughing at something Veronica said—his whole face soft in a way I rarely see. It shouldn’t matter. We’re not… anything. One kiss during a storm doesn’t make a relationship. A few lingering glances don’t equal commitment.
But as I crawl into bed, exhaustion edging out everything else, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s shifting—not just with the house, but with me. Tomorrow we’re removing a beam that once seemed essential but isn’t actually supportinganything. The space will open, transform—become what it was meant to be all along.
I fall asleep wondering what else I’ve been clinging to that I could let go of.
The beam removalturns out to be both more dramatic—and more symbolic—than I expected.
We start early, clearing the area and setting up supports. Owen moves with his usual methodical precision, double-checking every measurement, every connection, before reaching for the saw.
“Ready?” he asks, safety gear on, reciprocating saw in hand.
I nod, fully geared up and holding my phone to document the process. “Ready.”
The saw screeches through the wood, sending sawdust everywhere despite our best efforts. Owen works with practiced intensity, cutting precisely at the points where the beam connects to the ceiling. I film everything, narrating for the video.
“The structural engineer confirmed this beam isn’t supporting anything critical,” I explain to the camera. “We redistributed the load to the perimeter walls during the renovation, so removing this opens up the space and improves the flow.”
When he finishes the final cut, Owen sets the saw down and looks at me. “Want to help pull it?”
I switch my phone to time-lapse and set it on a shelf, then join him. The beam’s still partially attached but no longer bearing any weight.
“On three,” he says. “One, two, three.”
We pull together. It comes free more easily than I expected. Lowering it to the floor, I’m struck by its weight—this solid piece of wood that once felt so essential.
But when we step back and look at the space—everythingchanges.
“Oh wow,” I breathe. “It’s completely different.”
