In My Rearview Mirror, JACK.HUGHES

THREE

I watch as Brad sleeps peacefully beside me. The glow from the streetlights outside casts a soft shadow on his face. However, my mind is far from restful. The clock ticks away, and it's already 3 am.

Braden brought me on a luxurious dinner at a fancy restaurant, where he treated me with a level of care that felt possessive yet endearing. I sense that he desires to take our relationship to the next level, to make us exclusive. He seems ready to commit, to claim me as his own.

Yet, I find myself conflicted. Despite Brad being a wonderful person, a part of me hesitates. I fear that moving too fast might brake what we have, turning a beautiful connection into something more complicated.

The soft glow of the phone screen illuminates the room. My gaze is fixed on the device, contemplating the recent Instagram story I shared. A picture of Brad, his back to the camera, accompanied by a caption dripping with romantic allure.

Suddenly, the tranquility of the night is disrupted by the appearance of "UNKNOWN NUMBER" flashing on the screen. A chill runs down my spine as I recognize the late hour and the likelihood of the caller's identity. Instinctively, I rise from the bed and make my way to the bathroom for a semblance of privacy.

The familiar voice on the other end of the line carries a mixture of relief and urgency. "Thank god you answered," he exclaims, setting the tone for an unexpected conversation.

"Morgan did you went out tonight?" he asks me. As he questions my whereabouts, I confirm that I had indeed gone out on a date with Brad.

His tone shifts, revealing a hint of inebriation, and he discloses his own escapade to a club with Trev and a few other. 

The scent of alcohol seems to seep through the phone, accentuating the disjointed nature of his words. I maintain a calm demeanor as I inquire about his current situation. "I think you drank a lot more than I did tonight. Who are you with?"

"Me and Zegras are calling an Uber. The party is fucking over", He grunts loudly in my hear. 

I can't help but roll my eyes at the randomness of the call, contemplating the peculiar timing of our conversation.

"Listen, I don't know why you're calling me but I think you should delete my number alright?", I advise him.  "No I'm calling because I just saw your story. It doesn't make sense. I honestly thing that you can do better. What the fuck Morgan think about it, this guy is a looser. Shit." He says aggressively. 

His tone grows more aggressive, criticizing my choice of a romantic partner and urging me to reconsider. 

"I don't think you're in the right position to say this. You're so drunk, Jack. Quit drinking and get home," I assert, attempting to reason with him.

"No, I fucking mean it. You knew it was me calling, and you still answered," he retorts, pointing out the inconsistency in my actions. Once again, he's right – I knew, yet I answered.

I decide to pose a risky question: "Are you still thinking about us?" His response is surprisingly straightforward. "No, I'm sorry Morgan, I'm not. I just hope that you're doing better," he replies sincerely. Despite my initial curiosity, the reality of his answer leaves me with a mix of emotions, including a touch of embarrassment. 

"It's been years, what do you think, huh? I'm going to hang up now. Take care," I assert. 

The conversation takes an unexpected turn as Jack pleads, "Wait, come see me play tomorrow." I respond with a firm stance, "You know I can't, Jack," and promptly end the call. The prospect of attending one of his games feels like stepping back into a circle of toxicity that I've worked hard to distance myself from.