Page 15 of The Cyrano Situation
I grabbed his phone from the coffee table. "Show me the exact message."
Cyril unlocked it and navigated to the conversation with Jules. I skimmed through their recent exchanges, noting the easy rhythm they'd fallen into. Most of it was my words, or at least my phrasing, but the substance was pure Cyril—his thoughts on books they'd both read, his dry observations about publishing, his gentle probing questions about Jules's life and interests.
The latest message from Jules read:I'm really enjoying our conversations. Would you want to meet for coffee this weekend? There's a great place near the part on 6th.
"When did he send this?" I asked, noting the timestamp from two hours ago.
"During my lunch break," Cyril admitted. "I've been staring at it ever since."
"And panicking instead of eating lunch, I'm guessing."
Cyril's sheepish expression confirmed my suspicion. I sighed and handed the phone back to him. "Okay. First, eat something now. Then we'll draft a response."
He obediently picked up a container of green curry and took a halfhearted bite. "What should I say?"
I considered, tapping my chopsticks against my lips. "The key is to convey interest while setting a boundary. You want to make it clear you're not rejecting him, just the timing."
"So like, 'I'd love to, but I'm busy this weekend'?"
"Too vague," I said. "And it just kicks the can down the road. He'll suggest next weekend."
"Which would also terrify me," Cyril muttered.
I fought a smile. "Let's try something more specific. Something that acknowledges the invitation as a positive step while explaining why you need more time."
I pulled out my own phone and started typing, thinking aloud as I composed. "How about: 'I'm really enjoying our conversations, too. I'd love to meet in person, but I should probably tell you that I'm pretty reserved when it comes to new people. I'd like to get to know you a bit more through messages before taking that step. Hope that doesn't come across as strange. I just want to be honest about where I'm at.'"
I looked up to find Cyril staring at me with a mixture of awe and affection. "How do you always know what to say?"
A warm flush crept up my neck. "It's my job to find the right words. Publicity director, remember?"
"It's more than that," he said softly. "You understand people in a way I never will."
I cleared my throat, suddenly uncomfortable with his praise. "So, what do you think? Too honest?"
"No, it's perfect." He took my phone, reading over the message again. "It sounds like me, but...better."
"It sounds exactly like you," I insisted. "The you that exists when you're comfortable, when you're not overthinking every word."
He gave me a skeptical look but copied the text into his own phone. His thumb hovered over the send button. "What if he thinks I'm weird and stops responding?"
"Then he's not the right person for you," I said firmly, ignoring the treacherous little voice in my head whispering that maybe that would be for the best. "But he won't. That's a perfectly reasonable boundary to set."
Cyril took a deep breath and hit send. Then immediately threw his phone to the other end of the couch like it had burned him.
"Now we wait," he said, his voice strained.
"Now we eat," I corrected, pushing his abandoned curry back toward him. "And maybe put on a movie or something. Distraction is key."
We settled on a rewatch of "The Princess Bride," Cyril's comfort movie since childhood. As Westley and Buttercup navigated the Fire Swamp, Cyril's phone buzzed. We both froze.
"Do you want me to look?" I offered after Cyril made no move toward it.
He nodded mutely.
I retrieved the phone and checked the message, my heart doing an odd little skip as I read:
That doesn't sound strange at all. I appreciate your honesty. I tend to rush into things, so this is a good check for me. I'm enjoying getting to know you through messages, too. Maybe we could plan to meet when you're feeling more comfortable? No pressure, though.
