Page 26 of The Cyrano Situation
I forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. "Then my work here is done, and you can name your firstborn after me. Though I'd suggest using it as a middle name. 'Hart' is a lot for a kid to live up to."
He laughed, but his eyes were still searching mine. "I'm serious. I wouldn't be here without you."
"That's not true," I said, surprising myself with my sincerity. "You had it in you all along. I just... helped give you a little push."
The elevator doors opened, and we stepped out into the lobby.
"Ready?" I asked.
Cyril took a deep breath and nodded. "Ready."
As we headed toward the subway, I tried to convince myself that this really was the perfect ending to our little charade. Cyril would meet Jules, they'd hit it off, and I'd fade into the background, content with my role as the architect of their happiness.
If only I believed it.
Chapter Eight - The Cyrano Test
Hart
I'dneverconsideredmyselfa connoisseur of bad decisions. But this particular decision felt like I had become a sommelier of self-sabotage, if you will. And today's selection was particularly exquisite—a robust blend of professional meddling and emotional masochism with undertones of pathetic longing and notes of inevitable heartbreak.
I adjusted my position behind the potted fern that was doing an inadequate job of concealing me at The Caffeine Chronicles, the unnecessarily hip coffee shop three blocks from Pinnacle's offices. The barista—whose name tag reads "Saffron" and who is wearing what appears to be a hand-knitted beanie despite it being seventy-five degrees outside—eyes me suspiciously. I can't blame her. I've been nursing the same oat milk latte for forty-five minutes while hunched over my phone like I'm plotting a heist.
Which, in a way, I am. A heist of hearts. Just not my own.
"Surveillance position secured," I tell Cyril, then immediately regretted the phrasing. "I mean, I'm here. Corner table by the Modernist Literature section. How fitting."
My phone buzzed almost instantly.
Cyril:I'm having second thoughts. What if I bore him? What if I spill something? What if I accidentally quote Wordsworth when I meant Coleridge?
I smiled despite myself. Only Cyril would consider misattributing a Romantic poet to be the height of social catastrophe.
Me:Breathe. You know more about literature than anyone I've ever met. Just be yourself. Minus the cardigan collection references.
Cyril:I'll have you know my cardigan collection is fascinating. I have one that belonged to an Oxford don who allegedly once lent a pencil to T.S. Eliot.
Me:Save that riveting anecdote for the third date. Where are you?
Cyril:Pacing outside. I can see you through the window. Stop smirking.
I looked up and there he was, a nervous silhouette on the sidewalk. Cyril Nolan, Head Editor and literary savant, thankfully not wearing his "good" cardigan. His hair looked like he had been running his fingers through it, releasing a few of his tightly controlled curls, making him look all academically delicious. My chest tightened.
Me:You look great. Now get in here before Jules shows up and thinks he's been stood up.
Cyril entered with that slightly hunched posture that made him appear shorter than his six feet two inches. I'd spent months trying to correct that, ambushing him in the office hallway with "shoulders back!" until he'd started taking alternate routes to the break room to avoid me. Today, though, as he approached thecounter to order, I noticed he was making a conscious effort to stand straight. Progress.
He ordered something complicated that required the barista to use three different syrups, then scanned the room. When our eyes met, I gave him a thumbs up that I hoped conveyed "you've got this" rather than "I'm slowly dying inside." He nodded and chose a table on the other side of the fern from me, two table over—perfect for my observation and whispering sweet nothing purposes, terrible for my emotional well-being.
Cyril:Is this table okay? Too central? Not central enough? Should I move to one by the window?
Me:It's perfect. Stop overthinking. Remember what we practiced: open body language, occasional eye contact, thoughtful questions.
Cyril:And under no circumstances should I mention my thesis on the use of parenthetical asides in Nabokov.
Me:Correct. Save that for when you want him to break up with you.
Cyril:Oh God, he just texted. He's two minutes away. Hart, I can't do this.
