Chapter 12

Winnie

F or my eighteenth birthday, the boys gave me a check. A check that made my eyes bulge out of my head. I immediately said, “No way,” put it back in the card they’d all signed, and thrust it back at Jack.

My mind is still boggled and my eyes well with tears when I think of the amount of money they’d saved up for me.

“I’m not a charity case.” I’d jutted my chin. “I’m not taking a dime from your parents.”

I’d been convinced that it was all from Anna. I have self-esteem issues now, but back then? The fact that these guys could do something so thoughtful with no strings attached, for me? It was too much for my brain to process.

“None of this is from Mom or Dad,” Jack said. “It’s all from us. It’s all for you. It’s a gift. It’s not charity.”

It didn’t make sense. They had always been a hard-working family, each brother taking on part-time jobs around their homework and various school activities. But they should be using that money towards their own futures, towards college.

“Why?” I think I said, I might have been too emotional to manage actual words, though.

“We’re going to use it to buy you your own place.”

Gavin had a lot less piercings then, but his lip ring always made me pay extra attention when he spoke. “It won’t be a palace, but we’ll fix it up however you want.”

Back then, like now, we were on the precipice of a new chapter of our lives, all or most of us going our separate ways.

Jack had already been living in California, majoring in Architectural Engineering at UCLA. Renovating the disaster of a house he bought dirt cheap at an auction in his freshman year became his focus outside of earning his degree.

“Jackie’s distracting himself from the loneliness of being so far away from home,” Anna had said.

But that house paved the way. It became the place where Max and Mason eventually joined him, pursuing screenwriting and film production. Over spring breaks and summer vacations, the other boys went out to visit, but my dad firmly rejected all of my invitations for me.

I knew Gunnar and Diesel wanted to move into the remaining spare room and pursue their music, and I panicked sometimes, that they’d all leave me. Forget the chubby girl next door, easily replaced by the hot girls of California.

It went without saying that I did not want to live in Smithville once I no longer had to. But the boys didn’t want me putting down roots too far away, either. Their roots would always be in Smithville, no matter how far away they scattered, they would always return to their homebase with Anna and Popsy. And even if I planned to never go back there, the boys wanted me to be close enough that their parents were within a day’s driving distance of wherever I was, in case I ever needed them to come to me.

When they showed me the cottage in Whispering Glen, I was sold. Not because of the cottage itself–that was a hot mess–but because of the name of the quaint little town the cottage was in. Whispering Glen. It might as well have been called Heaven. I hated screaming more than anything–still do–so Whispering Glen sounded like a dream.

I pull into the driveway and smile.

My cottage is snug. Quaint. It’s cozy and idyllic. It boasts a layout meticulously planned to conserve space. Those are a few of my favorite design biz descriptions to use for my tiny one bedroom, one bath, with a kitchen, and a single living/dining space.

But the size hasn’t mattered to me. The boys asked me for a wishlist and then they proceeded to fulfill every item on it, like Santa’s most overachieving team of elves.

I wanted a home, and I got the most adorable house imaginable, with a white picket fence, a scarlet red door, and a porch swing that looks out over a lush garden. Inside, there’s a reading nook tucked into one of the windows, even.

But the house is better than all that, because the wreath on the door was lovingly handmade by Anna. The swing was a surprise put in by Jack because I had wanted one as a kid. Every plant in the garden was one I’d called a favorite while tagging along with Axel on his weekend gardening jobs back in high-school. The reading nook was designed by Gav. It was all made just for me. A cottage built with love by my best friends. My found family. It’s my sanctuary.

“Home sweet home,” I whisper, and I wish the words didn’t feel so incomplete. Because this is the thing that has never made sense: it’s my perfect house… but it has never quite felt like home.

Don’t get me wrong–I adore my cottage and I will be forever grateful for what the boys did for me. This place will always hold a special place in my heart. But the concept of home will forever be a slippery one for me. Odd for someone who spent almost the last decade of her life co-starring in a home renovation show, but to me, maybe home isn’t about the walls and the roof and the rooms. Maybe it’s about who shares it with you.

Once inside, I open up all the windows to let fresh air in.

The long drive here gave me a lot of time to think, but my mind kept getting snagged on something Goldie had said about me worrying too much about how the audience watched me to notice how my boys were watching me.

I have never, not once, watched any of our shows. Not even the premiere. When Anna and Popsy threw a watch party in the ballroom of a hotel near where we were filmed, I slipped out once the lights dimmed. Cruz noticed and followed me and we played cards up in my room, sneaking back in before the end credits rolled. He didn’t ask a single question. He just… accepted what I needed and was there without a discussion about it.

I’m stronger now. I can handle watching myself–seeing my body, each and every one of my insecurities out on display for the world’s mean, hungry eyes. I have to, because maybe watching our journey will give me the perspective I need.

Curling up on the couch with my phone, I queue up that first episode. I don’t have time to watch them all, but I decide to choose one from each season.

The opening to the show is a montage of tan abs and tools. It’s awful. But I recognize my boys, chest by chest, and I drool like every viewer in the world probably has, which is shameful, I know. And worse, I’m instantly ready to run to my bedroom, grab my dildos, and give myself ten glorious hammerings.

But then there I am beside Max as he introduces the renovation we’re about to undertake. It’s weird being on the outside, watching myself. I cringe at my awkward smile, my thighs, ugh. I’m not a whale, not exactly. But with my pale skin, the name baby beluga pops into my mind.

Baby beluga. It’s my dad’s voice in my head. That was one of his names for me.

Stop , I tell myself. Focus on something else.

My hair looks cute.

And Max? He’s shirtless, as always, and seeing his younger body, younger face, that shorter haircut, makes me smile so much it’s hard not to enjoy the show.

Watching all the guys on screen, listening to their interviews about me, seeing what the camera chose to show of our camaraderie, our laughter, our happiness as a group, makes the episodes sail by. My transformation from awkward and uncertain to relaxed and spontaneous is obvious.

And the reason why is clear – I’m never without my boys. Axel is always available to lend a helping hand and a listening ear whenever I am struggling on a project. Gav and Gunnar bring joy and spontaneity into each project, Max encourages me to be gentle with myself when things aren’t going to plan… nearly every scene has at least one of them either praising me to the camera – which makes my face burn and my smile grow – or it shows us hard at work, playing around during down times, and working as an amazing team.

I remember so much about our demolitions, renovations, and grand reveals. The laughter and disasters, and great successes, and yet this view is like watching an entirely different side of my life. I’m absorbed for hours, only stopping for necessary pee breaks. And by the time my phone battery is at 1% and I need to head back to Smithville, I know two things for certain. No man will ever love me like the Hammer brothers love me. And no, I can’t keep them all with me forever.

But there’s no way I can just let them all go at the end of the summer, either. Basically, I’m more confused than ever.