The ghost of Kate Hudson landed in Honolulu with the kind of glow that makes a man forget he’s living in a studio apartment with a pull-down bed. When I picked her up at the airport, she looked just as bright and beautiful as she did when she surprised me in Sedona for my birthday, but there was a new quality to her—a glow that was less about raw passion and more about a terrifyingly deliberate intent. She stepped off that plane from Vancouver and didn’t act like months had passed; she didn’t act like there was a border or a gap between us at all. She grabbed my hand, pulled me in for a kiss that tasted like a permanent contract, and made it very clear that the itinerary didn’t include a restaurant. She didn’t want the local flavors of Hawaii; she wanted the familiar flavor of me. We headed straight for her hotel in Waikiki, skipped the small talk, and dove into several sessions that were less like a reunion and more like a declaration of war.
By the time New Year’s Eve rolled around, she was a masterpiece. I watched her get dressed, watched her transform into this gorgeous creature that had every head in Waikiki swiveling as we walked down the street. It’s funny; there wasn’t a single grain of jealousy in my body. I wasn’t worried about the eyes of the crowd; I just felt the need to pull her a little closer, to keep the perimeter tight, to make sure she stayed within the gravitational pull of my orbit. We ate, we laughed, we listened to the bands, and when the clock struck midnight and the sky over the Pacific exploded in light, I took her down to the lagoon. It was the “sex on the beach” fantasy she’d been carrying around in her head, and I delivered it with the cold efficiency of a man who knows how to fulfill a request, even if his heart isn’t in the paperwork.
We spent two days in that hotel bubble before I moved her to my little bachelor pad in Kapolei—a studio tucked away in a quiet neighborhood where the sea breeze was the only thing that didn’t feel like a demand. From there, we explored the secret beaches, the spots I’d scouted during my solo reconnaissance, watching the sunsets bleed into the water and spending every spare second in that pull-down bed. It was during one of those sessions—right after a particularly violent orgasm that should have left us both in a peaceful coma—that she stopped. She propped herself up, looked me dead in the eye, and told me she was madly in love with me. She told me she wouldn’t fly to Arizona or Hawaii for just anyone. She told me I was the man she’d been waiting for. It was a confession designed to be a mirror; I was supposed to see myself in her words and say them back. Instead, I did what I do best: I cracked a joke, changed the subject, and tried to find the exit.
She didn’t take the hint. She repeated those words like a mantra for the rest of her stay, and with every “I love you,” I felt a door in my mind slam shut. I could see it in her eyes—she wanted a commitment, a future, a merger of our lives. On paper, it was a dream scenario. I had this beautiful, intelligent, submissive woman who I’d essentially trained to meet every one of my needs, but internally, I was clicking through empty files. We went to Electric Beach, we swam, we watched the sunset at Yokohama, we did the oyster shooters at the 605 and listened to live music, but I was just a ghost in the room. On her last day, I had a whole schedule planned—a new hike, a new restaurant—but all she wanted was more time in bed, more of that physical “Husband and Wife” roleplay that was starting to feel like a cage.
I started asking myself what the hell was wrong with me. Why does this woman want me so much? I didn’t have money, I didn’t have a castle, I didn’t have anything but a studio and a pull-down bed. In Bend, I realized people were always taking things from me—taking my time, my money, my energy. And sitting there with this beautiful, honest Canadian woman, I realized she was doing the same thing, even if she didn’t have a drop of malice in her. She was drawing from my pool, sipping from my glass, and I realized I wasn’t drinking from hers. I didn’t want her body; I was just providing it because she wanted it. She was a giver, sure, but she was giving in a way that required me to be the “Persona” she believed in. It reminded me of that story about the Rabbi and the fish. A guy says he loves fish, and the Rabbi says, “No, you don’t love the fish. You love yourself. You love how the fish tastes, you love the excitement of the catch, but if you loved the fish, you’d be feeding it in the water. You’ve extracted the fish from its life to serve yours.”
I was the fish, and I was being eaten. I felt drained every time she left the room. I’m not the greatest guy in the world, and I’m certainly not an honest agent when it comes to the heart, but I knew I couldn’t be the man she was professing her love to. I felt like if I stopped being entertaining, if I stopped being “Charles,” she’d see the empty room inside and leave anyway. So, I let the silence do the work. After she flew back to Canada, the phone calls got shorter. The texts faded into the background noise of my life. A few months later, she sent me a long-winded, professional-grade email professing her love one last time, mentioning the orgasms and the connection and the “forever.” I read it once, didn’t feel a single spark of regret, and never responded. I never called her back. I never checked to see if she found a new “husband” to ransack her. That was the end of the Canadian trip—a unique spin in my life that taught me I’m not built for the kind of love that requires me to stay in the water. I appreciated the moments, I appreciated the glow, but I appreciated the exit most of all. Looking back, I realize I’m just a man who likes the taste of the fish but has no interest in maintaining the aquarium. I’m leaving Tucson, leaving Hawaii, and leaving the ghost of Kate Hudson exactly where I found her: in the rearview mirror.
