“Can I see?”
He hesitates, then hands me the pad.
What I see isn’t just trim. It’s everything—the entire window seat, down to the angles of light. Built-in storage. Framing options. Thoughtful, elegant details. But what stops me is the last sketch: a figure sitting in the finished window seat. A woman with curly hair and a book. Me.
The sketch isn’t precise—it’s more suggestion than portrait—but it’s unmistakable.
“These are incredible,” I whisper. “You never told me you draw like this.”
“They’re just rough drafts,” he says, watching me carefully.
“They’re more than that,” I say, flipping through. “They’re?—”
I stop. Tucked between the pages is a sheet of paper. Folded. My handwriting.
It’s one of my old lists. Profit margins. Projected ROI. Back from when this was just a flip.
And suddenly I understand what I’ve stumbled into: the space between who I was and who I’ve become.
Projected renovation costs:$45–60K
Potential market value post-renovation:$130–150K
Estimated profit:$15–30K depending on final costs
Timeline:3–4 months renovation + 1–2 months to sell
Exit strategy:List with local agent, return to LA with profit
The words stare back at me, clinical and detached—the calculations of someone already planning her exit before she’d even arrived. A person who saw this house as a spreadsheet line item. A project. A launchpad back to the “real” life she thought she was pausing.
A person I no longer recognize.
I look up to find Owen watching me. His expression is carefully neutral, but his eyes—his eyes give him away. There’s hurt there, sharp and quiet, the kind he’s trying not to show.
“Owen, this isn’t—” I begin, then falter. Because what can I say? That it’s not what it looks like? It’s exactly what it looks like. Proof that I intended to fix the house and leave. That I treated Maple Glen as a stepping stone, nothing more.
“It’s fine,” he says, too evenly. “It’s a logical plan. Financially sound.”
“It was my original plan,” I say, needing him to hear that word. “Before I got here. Before I met everyone. Before?—”
Before you, I don’t say.
Owen closes the notepad with deliberate care. “Plans change. I understand that.”
But his tone says he doesn’t. Or maybe he does—too well. Maybe he sees this as confirmation of the thing he’s feared all along: that I’ll leave. That I’m just another person who couldn’t stay.
“Owen,” I try again, “that plan doesn’t reflect how I feel now.”
He looks at me then, really looks, and asks, “And how do you feel now?”
The question hangs there, too direct, too raw, too Owen. And I have no answer. Or rather, too many. I feel confused. Anchored. Terrified. Like I’ve built something I wasn’t planning to—not just a house, but a life. A place. A maybe.
Before I can speak, his phone rings—the distinctive tone he uses for his father’scare facility.
His expression shifts instantly, concern eclipsing everything else.
“I need to take this,” he says, already heading for the door. “We’ll continue later.”
