Abby:
That post was FEELINGS with a capital F. “Somewhere you belong”?? Who are you and what have you done with my commitment-phobic friend? Is this the Lumber Owen effect? Because I am HERE FOR IT.
I type back:
It’s just a caption, not a marriage proposal.
And CARPENTER Owen has nothing to do with it.
I’m just... less hate-filled toward the house now that it has actual walls and a roof that doesn’t leak.
She replies immediately:
Abby:
Sure, Jan. That’s why you’re suddenly writing captions that sound like you’re staying in Maple Glen forever instead of flipping the house and running back to LA.
I stare at the message, something strange settling in my chest. I haven’t thought about LA in weeks. The city I called home for five years feels... distant now. Less real than the tiny house I wake up in every morning. When did that happen?
Before I can respond, the camper door swings open. Owen steps in, Finn trotting at his heels. He’s holding architectural drawings, eyes narrowed in that “solving three problems at once” expression.
“The cabinet supplier called,” he says. “The custom corner units for the kitchen are delayed another week.”
“That puts us dangerously close to the TV deadline,” I say, setting my phone aside. “Can we swap in stock cabinets?”
Owen shakes his head. “Not with those dimensions. But Ihave an idea.” He unrolls the drawings on the table and points to a new sketch. “We build it custom. It’ll actually work better with the space.”
I lean over to study it. Our shoulders nearly touch in the tight space. The design is clever—angled storage that maximizes space without closing off the room.
“This is perfect,” I say. “But can we build it in time?”
“If we start tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll need to get materials today.”
“Let’s do it,” I agree. “Custom is better anyway.”
He nods, the faintest flicker of approval in his eyes. “I’ll stop at the lumberyard after we check drywall. They’re finishing the bathroom today.”
We head to the house. The drywall crew is in the final stretch. It’s wild—walls where there used to be studs, defined rooms where there used to be chaos. The place actually feels like a home now.
The bathroom is nearly done, crisp white walls forming the clean shell where fixtures will go. I’m mentally placing the vintage sink I scored at the salvage yard when one of the drywall guys calls out.
“Mr. Carver? We’ve got a situation.”
I feel it before Owen even responds—something tightens in my chest.
He crosses to the wall near the shower rough-in, pressing his hand against the drywall. His expression shifts.
“How long’s it been like this?” he asks, his voice flat, controlled.
“Just noticed it,” the worker says. “Felt soft while finishing the seam.”
Owen pulls out his utility knife, cuts a clean square into the drywall... and water seeps out.
“What is it?” I ask, though I already know.
“Water damage,” Owen says, his tone grim. “Significant damage behind thenew install.”
The words hit like a body blow.
