Page 13 of The Cyrano Situation
"Always," Hart promised.
I set the phone down and stared at Jules's message again. Books. I could talk about books. Books were safe. Books made sense in a way people rarely did.
I began typing, then deleting, then typing again. After several false starts, I settled on:
The best recent manuscript was a retelling of the Orpheus myth set in 1970s Berlin—the divided city as a modern underworld. Brilliant stuff. Your seminar sounds fascinating. What's your favorite retelling? (And congrats on the Hemingway converts. The old man and the sea of undergraduate apathy...)
I read it over twice, wincing at my own attempt at wordplay, but unable to think of anything better. "I'm sending it," I announced to Hart. "God help me."
"Read it to me first."
I did.
"That's perfect!" Hart said, sounding genuinely impressed. "See? You can do this."
"It's mediocre at best. The Hemingway joke is painful."
"It's adorkable, which is exactly your brand. Send it."
I pressed send before I could second-guess myself further, then immediately swiped out of the text screen. "There. Now I need approximately 90 minutes to recover from this ordeal."
"You're doing great," Hart assured me. "Want to talk about something else while we wait? How's that art forgery manuscript coming along?"
"The author keeps using 'nonplussed' to mean 'unimpressed' and I'm contemplating ritual seppuku."
Hart laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "That bad, huh?"
"Worse. The protagonist is supposed to be an art history professor, but he identified a Vermeer by its 'bold brushstrokes and vibrant color palette.'"
"Isn't Vermeer known for, like, the opposite of that?"
"Precisely!" I felt myself relaxing slightly as we slipped into the comfortable rhythm of shop talk. "Vermeer's technique is characterized by its delicacy and subtle luminosity. The author might as well have described a Picasso as 'pleasingly symmetrical.'"
Hart was still laughing when my phone dinged with a message notification in my hand.
"That was fast," Hart said.
"Too fast," I agreed, swiping with trepidation. I read Jules's response and felt my mouth go dry. "Oh no."
"What? What did he say?"
"'The Orpheus retelling sounds amazing! My favorite is probably Hadestown—have you seen it? Or if we're talking books, I loved Home Fire by Kamila Shamsie. And speaking of books and adaptations... would you maybe want to get coffeesometime and continue this conversation in person? There's a great independent bookstore/café near campus.'"
There was a beat of silence.
"He asked me out," I said, my voice faint. "An actual, unambiguous invitation to meet in person. What do I do?"
"You say yes, obviously!" Hart's voice was bright, enthusiastic, but I thought I detected something else beneath it. Something tight and controlled. Before I could analyze it further, Hart continued, "This is great, right? This is what you wanted."
"Yes, but..." I ran a hand through my hair, disheveling it completely. "Texting is one thing. In person, he'll see the actual me. The one who makes obscure literary references and rambles about punctuation and doesn't know how to make normal human small talk."
"Cyril." Hart's voice softened. "The 'actual you' is pretty damn great. And Jules seems like he'd appreciate someone who makes obscure literary references. He teaches literature, for God's sake."
"But what if—"
"No what-ifs. Say yes to coffee. I'll help you prepare. We'll come up with topics, practice conversation starters, the whole nine yards."
I took a deep breath. "You'd do that?"
