Page 24 of The Cyrano Situation
After Cyril left, I sat staring at my computer screen, wondering what fresh hell I'd just signed up for. I was going to spend my Friday night hiding in a bookstore, feeding lines to the man I was falling for while he wooed the man I'd been flirting with by proxy for weeks.
This was fine. Everything was fine. What could go wrong?
By Wednesday, we had a plan. Or rather, we had the skeleton of a plan held together by desperation and a tiny Bluetooth earpiece Cyril had ordered overnight.
"Testing, testing. Can you hear me?" Cyril's voice came through my office speakerphone as I pressed the earpiece into my ear.
"Loud and clear. Though I still think this whole idea belongs in a bad 90s romantic comedy."
"It's going to work," Cyril insisted. "We just need to practice."
We spent an hour running through scenarios—what to say when he first arrives, topics to discuss, how to gracefully navigate awkward silences. I tried to keep my suggestions aligned with the persona we'd created in the texts, which wasessentially Cyril, but with my conversational timing and slightly sharper wit.
"Remember, you're not an imposter," I found myself saying. "You've been the one talking to him all along. I just helped with the delivery."
"Right. I know that." Cyril didn't sound entirely convinced. "But what if—"
"No more what-ifs. You'll be fine." I cut him off, suddenly tired of the whole charade. "Look, I need to finish the Anderson press kit. We'll practice again tomorrow."
After he left, I pulled out my phone and opened the dating app again, scrolling through the recent exchanges. Jules had suggested the in-person meeting, mentioning that he had been "looking forward to seeing if Cyril's smile was as warm as his words."
Something twisted in my chest. I closed the app and tossed my phone into my desk drawer.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of actual work, which was a welcome distraction from the mess I'd created. By six, I'd finished the press kit and was gathering my things to leave when Priya appeared in my doorway.
"A bunch of us are going to that new bar on 23rd. You coming?"
"Can't. I have plans with my couch and a bottle of whiskey."
She leaned against the doorframe. "You know, for someone who makes their living making other people look good, you're doing a terrible job with your own PR."
"That's because I don't care what people think of me."
"I call bullshit." Priya crossed her arms. "You care what Cyril thinks."
I froze in the middle of putting on my jacket. "That's ridiculous."
"Is it? Because you've been acting weird ever since this whole dating app thing started. And now that he's actually happy, you're even worse."
"I'm helping him meet Jules on Friday," I said defensively. "That's hardly the behavior of someone who—" I stopped, unsure how to finish that sentence.
Priya's expression softened slightly. "Hart, you're my friend, so I'm going to say this with love: you're an idiot."
"So I've been told."
"Just... be careful, okay? This whole Cyrano thing never ends well for the person pulling the strings."
I shrugged on my jacket. "This isn't Cyrano. This is just me helping out a friend."
"If you say so." She pushed off from the doorframe. "Offer stands if you change your mind about drinks."
I declined and headed home, her words echoing in my head. This wasn't Cyrano. For one thing, I wasn't in love with Cyril. That would be absurd. I was just... invested in the outcome. Professionally.
And if I spent the evening drinking whiskey while rereading the text conversations I'd crafted between Cyril and Jules, well, that was just thorough preparation for Friday.
Thursday was a disaster. I snapped at an intern for bringing me the wrong coffee, nearly bit Margo's head off when she suggested changes to the Anderson press release, and spent most of the afternoon locked in my office "working" i.e.: staring into space and contemplating a career change.
Cyril cornered me by the coffee machine late in the day.
