Page 20 of The Cyrano Situation
I slumped in my chair after she left, mortified. Was the entire office discussing my text exchanges? My "sunny disposition"? The thought was excruciating.
But also... not entirely unpleasant? There was something almost nice about people noticing a change in me. Even if they were wildly exaggerating it. Half my mouth tipped back up.
I gathered my notes for the meeting and headed to the conference room, carefully balancing my laptop, notepad, and the still-untouched house blend coffee from Hart. I should probably throw it away, but something stopped me.
The conference room was already half full when I arrived. I slid into my usual seat—third from the left, perfect sightline to the presentation screen, optimal distance from the air conditioning vent—and arranged my materials in front of me.
Hart walked in a moment later, deep in conversation with Rebecca, our publisher. He glanced around the room, eyes landing on me for a brief second before he took a seat on the opposite side of the table. Odd. He usually sat next to me.
Rebecca called the meeting to order, and we dove into discussions about the fall list, marketing strategies, and production schedules. I took meticulous notes, as always, but found myself periodically checking my phone under the table. Jules had sent a photo of a student's paper with an incomprehensible margin note, followed by:
Sometimes I write comments when I'm half asleep and then can't decipher them the next day. Pretty sure this says "metaphor?" but it could also be "my father." Context clues aren't helping.
I smiled, quickly typing back:
Perhaps "more effort"? As in, the student should make more of it?
"Something amusing in your notes, Cyril?"
I jerked my head up to find Rebecca and the entire room staring at me. Hart, across the table, had an unreadable expression.
"No, sorry," I mumbled, feeling my face flame. "Just... caught a typo."
"Must have been hilarious," said Marcus from Sales, grinning. "Never seen you smile like that over a typo before."
A few people chuckled. Hart didn't.
"Ah, leave him alone," said Marlene, waving a dismissive hand. "Our Cyril's got a spring in his step these days. Hart's little project is clearly working."
Hart's head snapped up. "It's not a 'project,'" he said, his voice sharper than I'd ever heard it. "Cyril's not a project."
An awkward silence fell over the room.
Rebecca cleared her throat. "Right. Moving on to the marketing budget for the Spencer biography..."
The meeting continued, but I couldn't focus. Hart's words kept echoing in my head, along with the unusual edge in his voice. Was he angry with me? Had I done something wrong?
When Rebecca finally released us, I gathered my things quickly, intending to catch Hart before he disappeared. But by the time I'd organized my notes and closed my laptop, he was gone.
Back in my office, I tried to focus on work, but my mind kept drifting to Hart's strange mood. We'd barely spoken in days, I realized. Not since... well, not since I'd started getting more comfortable texting Jules on my own.
My phone buzzed. Jules again:
You're right! "More effort." Mystery solved. You should be an editor or something.
I smiled despite my distracted thoughts.
I'll consider a career change immediately. How's the grading going?
Slowly. Very slowly. Might need more coffee. Or wine. Or both, mixed together in unholy matrimony.
I don't recommend that combination. Strictly from a chemical perspective.
Fine, fine. Separate glasses. I bow to your scientific wisdom. What are you working on?
I hesitated, then decided honesty was the best approach:
Trying to work but distracted by office politics. Nothing serious, just... people can be complicated.
