Page 27 of The Cyrano Situation
Me:Yes, you can. You're brilliant, you're charming when you forget to be nervous, and you look hot in those jeans.
I paused after sending that last message, my thumbs hovering over the screen. Had that been too much? But before I could overthink it, I saw Cyril's face flush slightly as he read my text. He glanced up at me with a small, surprised smile that did uncomfortable things to my internal organs.
Cyril:Thank you. That actually helps.
The bell above the door chimed, and there he was. Jules Archer, PhD, looking like he stepped out of a J.Crew catalog for attractive academics. Olive corduroy jacket with elbow patches (of course), dark-rimmed glasses, and a messenger bag that probably contains dog-eared copies of obscure poetry collectionshe's planning to quote at the exact right moment. His dark curls with just a touch of silver that caught the afternoon light streaming through the windows. When he smiled at the barista it looked as if the simple act of ordering coffee is a profound joy.
God, what a beautiful, pretentious asshole.
No, that's unfair. Jules isn't pretentious. He's genuinely passionate about literature, which is even worse. If he were a fake, I could hate him properly.
But I did hate that Cyril's face lit up when he saw him. I hated that Jules spotted Cyril and smiled like he'd just found a first edition Fitzgerald in a garage sale. I hated that they were so obviously, perfectly matched—two literature nerds about to fall into a conversation that would exclude 99% of the population, including me.
When Jules made it to the table, Cyril stood up too quickly, nearly knocking over his elaborate coffee concoction. Jules steadied the mug with an easy grace that made me want to throw something.
"Professor Archer," Cyril said, his voice carrying just enough for me to hear.
"Please, Jules," the professor corrected, sliding into the seat across from him. "Save the 'professor' for lecture halls and particularly kinky scenarios."
I watched Cyril turn the color of a pomegranate as he sat. My phone buzzed.
Cyril:He just made a sex joke. WHAT DO I DO?
Me:Laugh. Relax. He's flirting with you. Flirt back.
An uncomfortable laugh escaped Cyril's throat as another text came through. Damn! He was really good at this texting without looking!
Cyril:HOW?
I sighed, taking a long sip of my coffee.
Me:Compliment something specific about him. His book, his research, NOT his elbow patches.
I watched as Cyril visibly composed himself, straightening his shoulders again.
"I really enjoyed your analysis of queer subtext in modernist literature," he said to Jules. "Particularly your chapter on Forster's withheld works. It changed how I approach editing contemporary queer fiction."
Jules leaned forward, genuinely interested. "Really? I'd love to hear more about that."
And they were off. From my surveillance post, I watched as Cyril's initial nervousness melted away, replaced by the animated enthusiasm he usually reserved for debates about Oxford commas or the merits of footnotes versus endnotes. His hands moved expressively as he talked, occasionally pushing back that stubborn curl that always fell across his forehead. Jules watched him with growing fascination, clearly taken by Cyril's passion.
My phone remained silent for nearly twenty minutes. Good. That meant things were going well. I should have been pleased with myself. After all, wasn't this exactly what I'd signed up for? Operation Get Cyril A Boyfriend was proceeding according to plan.
So why did I feel like I was swallowing glass?
I ordered another coffee, this time with a shot of espresso, because apparently, I wanted to be both miserable AND jittery.
Finally, my phone buzzed again.
Cyril:He just touched my hand. I can't breathe.
Me:Breathe. Touch him back. Not weirdly. Just... reciprocate.
I watched as Cyril deliberately set his hand on the table closer to Jules. The professor noticed, smiled, and during his next point about whatever literary minutiae had them bothenraptured, let his fingers brush against Cyril's again. This time, Cyril didn't freeze. Progress.
Meanwhile, I was gripping my coffee mug so hard I was surprised it didn't shatter.
The conversation flowed from Virginia Woolf to contemporary queer literature. I caught fragments—mentions of Ocean Vuong, Carmen Maria Machado, names I recognized only because Cyril had enthusiastically pushed their books into my hands over the past year, insisting I'd "connect with them on a spiritual level." I'd read them all, of course. I always read what Cyril recommended, even though I never had anything intelligent to add to his analyses beyond "I liked it" or "the main character was a jerk."
