There’s a moment in Spain, early October, where the heat finally gives up and the air slips into something softer. Not cold—Spain doesn’t really do cold—but lighter, less intense. Like the sky takes a deep breath and the land finally exhales. That’s when I love it most.
The fuchsia had survived. Barely. But there it was—still upright, still throwing out a few stubborn blossoms. The creeping thyme, on the other hand, was having a full-blown moment. Crawling between the paving stones like it had decided this garden was finally worth the effort. The rockrose I planted last spring had exploded into pale pinks and whites, and the rosemary bush was almost getting cocky.
I had invited a few friends round. Nothing fancy—six people, mismatched chairs, candles stuck into old wine bottles. Miguel came early with a bottle of red and a slightly lopsided lemon tart he’d made himself. He claimed it was “experimental,” which I translated to “hope for the best.”
Maria brought olives. Paul and Janet brought far too much wine. Someone played flamenco on a Bluetooth speaker, badly. It was chaos, and I loved every second of it.
Before they arrived, Miguel had helped me set up a shaded corner using bamboo screens and old sailcloth. He said it would give the Irish plants a fighting chance. It was a small thing, but it meant something. I didn’t ask him to. He just did it.
Later, over dessert, someone asked about the view from the kitchen. I found myself talking about the plants, the light, how I was thinking about enclosing the patio with something less… breezy. Miguel mentioned glass curtains in Javea—apparently very popular here, he said. A way to keep out the wind without losing the view. “They’re sleek, invisible when open. You’d love them,” he said, and I didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered.
I laughed. “You’ve been doing your homework.”
He smiled. “I like seeing you comfortable.”
That stuck with me. The way he said it. Not flashy, not forward. Just honest. And I wasn’t sure what to do with that.
After everyone left, I walked out into the garden with Max padding behind me. The thyme smelled strong in the dark. Somewhere under the lemon tree, a cicada buzzed too late in the season. I sat on the bench Brian built, still unsure if I liked the way it creaked under me, and watched the moonlight spill across the fuchsia.
It’s strange, how a garden tells you things before your brain catches up. How plants grow in places you didn’t plan, how people creep into your life the same way—slowly, without ceremony. Just… appearing. Taking root.
I wasn’t in love. Not yet. But maybe—I don’t know—maybe I’d started leaving the gate open.