He picks up the last of his tools and heads for the door. Finn stands, tail low, eyes flicking between us. The silence stretches until Owen calls him—softly, with more warmth than he’s shown me all morning.
“Come on, Finn.”
The dog hesitates, visibly torn. He takes one slow step toward Owen, then stops, turning his head back toward me. It breaks something in me—that brief moment of confusion, of loyalty split in two. But eventually, Finn follows, reluctant and slow, slipping out the door behind the man who won’t look back.
I stay frozen, listening to the dull thump of tools being loaded into the truck. When the engine starts and the crunch of gravel fades down the drive, the silence that follows feels louder than any argument we’ve ever had.
I sit down—drop, really—onto the window seat. The same window seat I fought for, argued over, designed with him. The one that ended up being about more than a view or a cushion or storage space. It was a space we carved out together. It held compromise. Possibility. Home.
We never made a rule about heartbreak.
Maybe we should have. Rule Number Eleven: No demolition without a rebuilding plan.
They always say you have to tear something down before you can rebuild. I just didn’t think the thing in ruins would be me.
There’sa particular sound that rain makes when you’re completely alone in a half-finished house. Not the romantic patter on a tin roof that people pay white noise apps to simulate. Not the cozy drumming that makes you want to curl up with tea and a book. This is the insistent, menacing rhythm of water finding every vulnerability—testing seams, probing gaps, seeking out the weakest points.
I stand in the main living area, listening to the percussion of exposure as another storm descends on Maple Glen. It’s been two days since Owen walked out, taking his tools, his expertise, and Finn with him. Two days of pretending I can handle this alone. Two days of YouTube tutorials and increasingly desperate calls to subcontractors, all of whom suddenly have “scheduling conflicts” now that Carver & Sons is no longer on the job.
Two days of realizing I’m in love with a man who thinks I was planning my escape all along.
“This is fine,” I mutter into the empty house, my voice lost beneath the rising wind. “Totally fine. Just a minor setback in the grand renovation journey.”
I check the tarp covering the roof section we hadn’t properly sealed. It billows and strains, anchors groaning under the pressure. The smart move would be to retreat to the camper and wait out the storm. But something in me refuses to leave. As if standing guard can somehow protect what I clearly can’t fix.
I grab Owen’s backup toolbox and haul thestepladder beneath the worst leak, where water is dripping steadily onto the new flooring. The ladder wobbles as I climb, my weight uneven, my movements lacking the quiet confidence I used to watch him work with.
At the top, I inspect the ceiling seam where the drywall tape is pulling free and water seeps through. I need to redirect it somehow, create a makeshift channel until real repairs can happen. It sounds simple. In theory.
I reach for the plastic sheeting we’d used for earlier water damage repairs, fumbling with the utility knife. The blade slips—not enough to cut, but enough to send the knife clattering to the floor. I curse, the ladder shaking beneath me as I stretch toward the ceiling with my sad little patch.
“You’d know how to fix this,” I say aloud, pressing the plastic into place, fighting duct tape that refuses to adhere to anything damp. “You’d have the right tools, the right technique, that maddening calm that makes everything look effortless.”
The patch lasts eight seconds before peeling off completely.
I climb down, defeated by tape, water, and my own limits.
Standing in the center of this half-built house, surrounded by unfinished details and plans we were supposed to complete together, I feel the weight of everything I’ve lost. Not just Owen’s skill, but the quiet rhythm we’d found—the wordless coordination, the shared vision, the way we’d started to feel like a team.
“I can’t do this alone,” I tell the empty room, and the words taste like surrender.
The storm answers with a gust that rattles the windows—windows he installed, perfectly leveled and sealed. At least something in this place is holding.
I walk to the window seat—his reluctant gift to my impractical dream. It’s almost done now, just missing cushions and trim. I run a hand along the smooth edge, remembering the rare smile he gave when I’d first sat there and declared it perfect.
The memory lands like a bruise.
I sink into the seat, watching rain stream down the glass. And for once, I stop trying to hold everything together. I let myself feel it. All of it.
The storm dragson into the afternoon, relentless. I’ve managed to rig a system of buckets and plastic sheeting to catch the worst of the leaks. It’s crude but functional—which feels like the most accurate reflection of my current state.
At the workbench, I open my laptop and try to focus on next steps. The TV production deadline is less than two weeks away. I need to find another contractor fast—or accept that this opportunity is slipping through my fingers.
An email notification pings, cutting through the sound of rain. It’s from Adele Hutchinson.
My stomach drops. I open it with the kind of dread I haven’t felt since test scores in middle school.
From: Adele Hutchinson
