In Bloom

We are so back.

And somehow, already, it’s about to become a we were.

A cab is coming in the morning. Two stops: the hospital for his surgery, the airport for my flight to America. I'm crying in Mr. International's arms—or arm, technically. The other one's broken.

There’s a story, of course.

It feels impossible that time moves like this. That something can feel permanent while actively ending.

Spain molds me into place. I don't just visit—I live there, fully, instinctively, like my body understands something my paperwork doesn't. Yet.

In that vulnerable pocket right before one last sleep in Spain, I ask him something I already know.

“Promise you’re going to love me?”

I don’t need to ask. But the way he answers makes me glad I did.

“I’m not going to love you,” he says. “I already love you.”

And yes, that's what this is about. The wild ride of love, distance, and the unknown, carried by the certainty that he’s already in. He's already chosen this with me.

He’s committed to what is, not what could be.

So. The hospital.

That story starts in Andorra.

Mr. International's third day snowboarding. He was supposed to wait on the baby slope while I finished my run with friends.

I come back, scanning for that army jacket.

Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. Forty-five.

No service. No sign of him.

When his phone finally connects, I call immediately.

“Hi love!” Completely calm. “I got bored.”

Waiting didn't seem worth it to him, I guess, so he just—took blacks, reds, whatever would get him down the mountain. Without a map, mind you. I said I wanted someone fearless. Shrug.

That wasn't what got him, though.

It was the last turn of the run. A blue slope he'd done several times before.

One sheet of ice. One fall.

His elbow separated from his arm.

The fun continued.

We reunited in the car, heading down the mountain to get help, when cops stopped us. Not just us—the entire road. At least an hour, they said. The mountain has one main street. And it was completely shut down.

Día de los Reyes. My first one. Already memorable.

We looked for another route. There was one—through France. We didn't have our passports with us.

So yes. Mr. International sat with a freshly broken arm for over an hour so a parade could pass.

And yes, when the parade reached us, we were delighted to discover it was a single fake camel.
Pushed by six men.

Eventually, the street cleared. We made it to the hospital. Surgery scheduled back in Barcelona.

They put him in a cast. That cast had a long life of six hours before he ripped it off.This guy.

Fast forward—we're back at the cab in Barcelona. You know, the one going to the hospital and the airport.

The driver was so confused by the request that once at the hospital, he drove off with the door open, thinking I was inside. I was outside, hugging Mr. International, then laughing and running after the car, wishing I didn't have to.

On the plane, I pay for Wi-Fi so I'll know the second he's out of surgery.

Minutes pass. More minutes. My "are you okay?" sits unread. Ten minutes feels like an hour. A video comes through. Won't load.

My mind fills in the blanks.

Low resolution. An outline of him in a hospital gown, lying on a bed.

Fuck.

When it finally loads, I start crying—for entirely different reasons.

The video was filmed by his dad and sent on Mr. International’s phone. That's why my messages went unread.

On screen, Mr. International is clearly drugged. Defenses down!

"Hi Hudson," he says. "Just to say… while I'm drugged… how much I love you. I feel really good talking about my feelings and everything." He laughs. "So just to say how much I love you. I love you so much. Take care."

AHHH.

Back in Dallas, I meet the Barcelona girl group—plus new additions from our Colorado trip—and we go to LadyLove.

Girlhood feels as good as ever. Whimsical, magical, giggly, expansive.

I can see my privilege clearly.

I get to love deeply. Be loved deeply. And still belong to myself.

Wrapped in Madonna, Prince, Rasputin, and a million reasons to dance, I feel it all at once. The fullness of it. The kind that doesn't cancel out longing, but sits right alongside it.

A friend says I radiate life.

I don't know if there's a better compliment.

Maybe it's the love I'm nourished with—in all its forms—that gives me this natural state of pure life force. The kind that lets me bloom everywhere at once: in romance, in friendship, in solitude, in change, in movement.

I'm not choosing between anything.

I'm living inside all of it.