Page 14 of The Cyrano Situation
"Of course. That's why I'm here." There was that strange note in Hart's voice again—something almost wistful. But before I could identify it, his tone brightened. "Team Cyril!"
Chapter Five - Spiraling
Hart
Istaredatmyphoneas it buzzed with Cyril's incoming call, his contact photo, a candid I'd snapped of him laughing at last year's company holiday party, flashing on screen. I knew before answering what this was about. The man had been floating on air for the past three days since establishing regular text communication with Jules. Too good to last, apparently.
"Let me guess," I said instead of hello. "You’re still spiraling about meeting Jules for coffee.”
"I am not spiraling," Cyril insisted, his voice pitched higher than normal. "I am having a completely reasonable reaction to a deeply terrifying proposition."
I pinched the bridge of my nose, sinking deeper into my couch. "Coffee. He suggested coffee, Cyril. Not a kidnapping."
"Coffee leads to conversation. Conversation leads to me opening my mouth and ruining everything."
"You've been conversing with him for days," I pointed out, though I knew it wasn't the same. The buffer of texting gave Cyril confidence—or rather, my words did. A pang of something uncomfortable twisted in my chest. Something I'd been fighting to ignore.
"Through texts," Cyril emphasized. "Texts that you help craft. Texts that make me sound charming and articulate and… and so not like me."
"They are like you," I said automatically. "I'm just...helping with a little polish."
"Hart, please. I need your help. Tell me how to get out of this without him losing interest."
I closed my eyes. Part of me, a selfish, awful part I didn't want to acknowledge, felt relieved. The thought of Cyril and Jules actually meeting, of Cyril potentially not needing me anymore to communicate with this guy he was clearly falling for...
Wait. What? I shoved that thought away. No. Cyril was just a friend and what kind of friend was I if I didn't do my best to help him?
"Okay," I said, opening my laptop. "I'm coming over. This requires strategy."
Forty minutes later, I was sitting in Cyril's neat as a pin living room, takeout containers from the Thai place down the street spread across his coffee table. He paced back and forth, occasionally stopping to run his hand through his dark curls, leaving them even more disheveled.
"You're going to wear a path in your floor," I remarked, breaking apart my chopsticks. "Sit down and eat something."
"I can't eat. My stomach is in knots."
"Drama queen."
"Realist," he corrected, but sank onto the couch beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed. "What am I going to do, Hart?"
I took a bite of pad thai to stall. The truth was, I understood his panic. Cyril wasn't just shy—he had genuine social anxiety that made these situations genuinely difficult. As his friend, I wanted to help him through it. As his...whatever else I was becoming, I wanted to protect him from potential disappointment.
"You have options," I said finally. "You could go through with it. Meet him for coffee."
Cyril's face paled. "No."
"Or you could tell him the truth. That you're interested but not ready for in-person yet."
"And sound like a complete weirdo? 'Hey, I like talking to you but I'm terrified of actually seeing you in person'?"
"Lots of people take online connections slowly," I pointed out.
"He already thinks I'm strange for not having social media."
I couldn't argue with that. Cyril's deliberate avoidance of Instagram, Twitter, and the rest was practically unheard of for someone our age, especially in publishing. It was one of the things I found endearing about him… his quiet rejection of the constant performance of modern life. But it did make him something of an anomaly.
"Third option," I said, setting down my food. "We craft a response that buys you time without rejecting the idea completely."
The hope that bloomed across Cyril's face made my chest tighten. "Yes. That one. Please."
