Page 28 of The Cyrano Situation
That was the thing about Cyril. He lived and breathed literature in a way I never could, despite working in publishing. Words were tools for me—useful for crafting press releases and convincing people to buy books. For Cyril, words were oxygen.
"Morrison captures that sense of yearning so perfectly," I heard Cyril say, his voice carrying in a moment of café quiet. "That feeling of wanting something so desperately while simultaneously pushing it away because you're afraid it might actually happen."
Jules nodded eagerly. "Yes, exactly! The tension between desire and fear… it's what makes her work so universally resonant."
I slumped lower in my seat. Toni Morrison. I'd read "Beloved" in college and found it beautiful but challenging. I remembered mentioning this to Cyril once, and he'd spent forty-five minutes explaining the historical and cultural contexts I'd missed, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. I'd been captivated. Not by Morrison, if I'm being honest, but by him.
I saw Cyril excuse himself and push back from the table, heading toward the restrooms. A moment later, my phone buzzed.
Cyril:We're discussing Morrison and I remembered that thing you said about Song of Solomon being "emotional hurricane in book form." Can I quote you?
I stared at the text. I'd never said that. I'd never even read Song of Solomon. But it sounded like something a person with actual literary insight might say.
Me:Go for it. But maybe don't mention it came from me.
Cyril:Ok. I think it's going well. Don't you?
I swallowed a sip of my now cold coffee before I answered hating the cold ball that suddenly formed in my chest.
Me:Yeah. Seems like you' re doing great, Cy.
Cyril:Thanks! I thought so. Better get back.
I watched as Cyril returned to the table took his seat and picked up the conversation as if he'd never left, smooth as could be, repeating my fabricated quote. Jules looked impressed, nodding vigorously.
"That's remarkably apt," the professor said. "The way Morrison constructs emotional landscapes that envelop the reader—'hurricane' is precisely right."
Cyril beamed, and I felt like the world's biggest fraud. A fraud who was apparently helping Cyril impress his date with my fake deep thoughts about books I hadn't read.
Their coffees were long finished, but neither seemed inclined to leave. Jules got up to order them both a second round. While he was at the counter, Cyril's fingers flew across his phone.
Cyril:This is going really well! He knows EVERYTHING about modernist literature. We've been discussing parallels between Woolf and Morrison for 20 minutes!
Me:Sounds riveting.
Cyril:Sorry, I know that's not your thing. But Hart, he's so easy to talk to. You were right about being myself.
Me:Told you. You don't need me.
I meant it to sound supportive, but as I sent it, I realized how terrifyingly true it was. He didn't need me. Not for this. Not for anything, really.
Cyril had always needed my help with confidence, with communication, with navigating social situations. It was our dynamic. I was the people person; he was the book person. I coached him through awkward office parties and helped him phrase emails to authors. He explained literary references and recommended books that made me feel things I didn't know books could make me feel.
But watching him with Jules, I realized something that felt like a punch to the gut. Cyril didn't lack social skills. He just needed the right audience. Someone who spoke his language, who lit up at the same things that excited him.
And that someone wasn't me.
Jules returned with their coffees and what appeared to be a slice of cake to share. As they both reached for forks, their hands touched again. This time, neither pulled away. I watched as Jules slowly, deliberately intertwined his fingers with Cyril's, and Cyril—my nervous, overthinking, adorkable Cyril—smiled with a confidence I rarely saw outside of editorial meetings.
My phone remained silent. They didn't need a chaperone anymore.
I should leave. This was veering from supportive friend territory into creepy stalker territory. But my legs refused to cooperate, keeping me anchored to my chair as I watched what felt like my own personal tragedy unfold in real time.
The conversation continued, punctuated by laughter and lingering eye contact. Jules said something that made Cyril throw his head back in genuine mirth, exposing the pale columnof his throat. I'd made Cyril laugh a thousand times, but never like that—never with that unguarded joy.
At some point, Jules reached across the table and gently brushed that stubborn curl from Cyril's forehead. It was such an intimate gesture, so casually done, that I had to look away. When I looked back, Cyril was staring at Jules with an expression I'd never seen before—a mixture of wonder and desire that made my coffee curdle in my stomach.
My phone buzzed.
