In My Rearview Mirror, JACK.HUGHES

THIRTY ONE

The dimly lit, closed-off restaurant creates an intimate atmosphere that seems to encourage the exploration of more personal facets of our lives.

Tom, seemingly attuned to the shift in our conversation, introduces a touch of romance into the discussion. "So, any special someone in your life?" he asks, a playful glint in his eyes.

I pause, considering the question. "Well, there's someone," I admit, a faint smile playing on my lips. "But it's complicated right now."

As I admit to Tom that there's someone in my life, a faint smile plays on my lips. I start sharing a little without disclosing any names, enjoying the lighthearted and somewhat mysterious nature of our conversation. However, my phone lights up on the bar, inadvertently revealing the screen.

I notice Tom glancing at my phone, prompting me to quickly turn it away to shield the content. "So you're actually a Rangers fan?" he asks, his question making me believe he might have caught a glimpse of the picture of me and my brother in Rangers jerseys that serves as my phone screen. 

I chew the inside of my cheeks, feeling a mix of embarrassment and amusement. To divert attention, I put my face in my hands momentarily.

Taking control of the situation, I retrieve my phone, deleting the notifications on the screen before showing him the picture again. "Wow, you met Cedric Carter? He's a good center," Tom remarks, pointing at the image.

I can't help but chuckle, finding amusement in his assumption. "Well, he's actually my brother," I reveal, sipping on my wine.

Tom's eyes widen in surprise and genuine excitement at my revelation. "No way! Your brother is Cedric Carter? That's incredible!" he exclaims, clearly impressed.

I nod, appreciating Tom's genuine enthusiasm. "Yeah, he's a center for the Rangers. It can be a bit surreal at times, especially with the whole hockey world and everything," I admit, sharing a glimpse into the unique dynamics of having a brother in professional sports.

Tom leans in, eager to hear more. "That's amazing. Do you get to watch the games often?"

I nod again, a fond smile playing on my lips. "Whenever I can. It's a bit challenging with my schedule, but I try to catch as many as possible. The atmosphere in the arena, the energy of the fans—it's something else."

Tom continues to listen with genuine interest, occasionally interjecting with questions and comments. However, my phone interrupts the flow of our conversation. Glancing at the screen, I see that it's Jack calling. Considering the time difference, it's already 1 am, and I assume it's around 10 pm in Vegas.

"I should probably go," I tell Tom, feeling the urge to answer Jack's call.

"Now? Okay, well, you know where to find me if you want to finish the bottle we opened together," Tom says, agitating the bottle in the air.

I thank him kindly, promising to pass by again one day. Exiting the restaurant with my coat in hand, I answer Jack's call nervously. ]

...

As droplets of sweat bead on my forehead when I think of this memory. I rise to wrestle control of the thermostat, seeking refuge from the stifling heat.