Owen places his tool on the table with precision and walks out. The front door closes behind him—not loud, not dramatic, but with a quiet finality that echoes through the half-finished space.
“Adele, I have to call you back,” I say, already moving toward the door. “We’ve got something to handle on-site.”
I end the call and step outside. He’s standing at the tailgate of his truck, hands braced against it, head down. He doesn’t look at me as I approach.
“Owen,” I begin carefully. “About the TV stuff—we don’t have to do any of that. I can tell them no. You don’t have to be part of something that doesn’t feel right.”
His voice, when it comes, is tight but not raised. “Is that what this is to you? A narrative? Another PR campaign?”
“No,” I say quickly, startled by the question. “Of course not. The renovation is real. What I post—it’s just sharing the process.”
He turns, and when he looks at me, the frustration is there, but so is something deeper. Disappointment. Hurt.
“And what’s the story exactly? You fix up the house, play small-town for a few months, find some charm in rustic carpentry,and then move on to the next project when the clicks slow down?”
“That’s not fair,” I say, feeling the heat rise in my chest. “Those plans you found were frombefore.Before I got here. Before I knew anyone. Before?—”
“Before what?” he cuts in. “Before you realized Maple Glen made great content? I saw your post today—’new beginnings,’ ‘what’s next.’ It doesn’t exactly scream permanence.”
“That was about theTV deadline,” I say, my voice climbing despite myself. “The renovation schedule. That’s all.”
He doesn’t respond right away. When he does, it’s in the flat tone of someone who’s already done the math and doesn’t like the outcome. “Right. Just like those profit margins were theoretical. Just like Veronica’s move here was just temporary. Just like her reasons for leaving.”
His words sting. The comparison burns. “I’m not Veronica,” I say, sharper than I intended. “And you’re not being fair. One document from two months ago doesn’t define what I want now.”
“Then what do you want?” he asks. And he means it—his voice isn’t angry now, just deeply, excruciatingly honest. “Because from here, it looks like you’re building a brand, not a home. Writing a story with a clean arc and a convenient out.”
The accusation hits too close to my own fears. That Iamjust passing through. That I’ve never stayed anywhere because I don’t know how. That I’ll always leave before someone has the chance to leave me first.
“That’s not true,” I say, but even to my ears, it sounds like a line rehearsed too many times. What proof do I even have? A few social media captions and unfinished drywall?
“I care about this place,” I try again. “I care about this house. About Maple Glen.”
“And when it’s done? When the episode airs, and the crew leaves, and the inbox fills with other offers?What then?” Owen doesn’t wait for me to answer. “What happens when staying becomes harder than walking away?”
“I don’tknow,” I snap, finally losing the last of my practiced calm. “Is that what you want to hear? That I don’t have a perfect plan? That I’ve spent my entire adult life running before anything could stick, and now I’m trying to figure out what it means tostay?”
His expression shifts—not softer, but deeper. Like he hears me, but doesn’t know what to do with it.
“What I want,” he says, quieter now, “is honesty. Not spin. Not some carefully packaged version of what you think I want to hear. Just the truth.”
I inhale, and for a second, I don’t know if I can give it. But then it comes, shaky and real.
“The truth is, I bought this house on impulse, thinking it was a project. A flip. But it stopped being that somewhere along the way. I didn’t expect to care. I didn’t expectyou.Or Finn. Or any of it. And that scares the hell out of me, because I don’t know how to want something that feels like it could last. I don’t know how to trust it.”
His silence is heavy. The air between us charged with all the things we’ve been avoiding.
When he finally speaks, it’s low. Controlled. “I can’t do this again. I can’t invest in someone who’s still got one foot out the door.”
“I’m not—” I start, but he lifts a hand to stop me.
“Your plans say otherwise. Maybe they’re old. Maybe your heart’s changed. But I’ve been here before, Penny. I’ve heard the speech. The hesitation. The ‘I’m trying’ from someone who was already planning their goodbye.”
“And that’s it?” I ask, heat and hurt rising in my throat. “You’re writing the ending for me now?”
“No,” he says. “You already wrote it. I’m just finally reading it.”
He walks to the truck. Stops just long enough to say, “I needto check on my dad. The painters will be here at one. The list for tomorrow’s work is on the bench.”
