Page 29 of The Cyrano Situation
Cyril:He asked if I want to continue this over dinner. Tonight. What do I say?
The correct answer was obvious. Say yes. The date was going well. Jules was clearly interested. Cyril was clearly interested. This was the successful outcome we'd planned for.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard as something dark and selfish rose in me. I could sabotage this. I could tell him to play it cool, to not seem too eager. I could invent some work emergency that required his immediate attention.
But I couldn't do that to him. Not when he was looking at Jules like he'd discovered a new constellation.
Me:Say yes. You deserve this.
I watched as Cyril read my message, then looked up at Jules with that same wonder in his eyes.
"Yes," he said, loudly enough that I could hear. "I'd like that very much."
Jules's smile was triumphant, and why wouldn't it be? He'd just won the affection of the most brilliant, kind, frustratingly endearing man in the city.
They stood up together, gathering their things. Jules helped Cyril into his coat—his good coat, the charcoal wool one I'd helped him pick out last winter. Their bodies moved in sync already, an easy choreography of two people gravitating toward each other.
As they headed for the door, Cyril glanced back toward my corner. I ducked behind my coffee mug like the coward I am, but not before our eyes met briefly. He gave me a small, grateful smile and a nearly imperceptible nod.
And then they were gone, walking close together down the sidewalk, occasionally bumping shoulders in a way that looked both accidental and entirely deliberate.
I sat there alone, surrounded by the detritus of my surveillance operation—an empty coffee cups, a half-eaten muffin I didn't remember ordering, and the crushing weight of a realization I could no longer avoid.
I was in love with Cyril Nolan.
I, Hart Fielding, publicity director who wore self-proclaimed emotional Teflon like a badge of honor, had fallen hopelessly, catastrophically in love with my colleague. My friend. The man I'd just helped connect with someone else.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I spent my career crafting narratives, controlling public perception, manufacturing connections between people and products. And here I was, having failed to recognize the most important narrative of my own life until it was walking out the door with someone else.
My phone buzzed one last time.
Cyril:Thank you for everything. I couldn't have done this without you.
I stared at those words until they blurred, then typed the biggest lie of my career.
Me:Happy to help. That's what friends are for.
Friends. Right. Because friends sit in coffee shops watching their friend fall for someone else while their heart splinters into a thousand jagged pieces. Friends help orchestrate their own personal nightmare because they're too cowardly to admit how they feel.
I finally stood up, legs stiff from sitting too long, and gathered my things. Saffron gave me a sympathetic look as I passed the counter. Either I looked as devastated as I felt, or she'd witnessed enough coffee shop heartbreaks to recognize the signs.
Outside, the early evening air was sharp with approaching autumn. I turned in the opposite direction from where Cyril and Jules had gone, not trusting myself not to follow at a pathetic distance.
The worst part wasn't that I'd lost something I never had. The worst part was realizing that what Cyril had said about Morrison, about yearning for something while simultaneously pushing it away, described exactly what I'd been doing with him for months. Years, maybe.
Afraid to want him. Afraid to lose him. And now, having accomplished both at once.
I walked home alone through streets full of people, mentally drafting and redrafting the story of how Hart Fielding, master communicator, had failed to communicate the only thing that mattered.
Chapter Nine - The Jig Is Up
Cyril
TherestaurantJuleshadchosen was the kind of place where the lighting made everyone look like they were in a movie. Not too dim to be pretentious, but soft enough that the harsh edges of reality blurred pleasantly around the corners. It was perfect, intimate without trying too hard, just like Jules himself.
He sat across from me now, the gentle amber glow catching the gold flecks in his hazel eyes as he studied the menu. I should have been studying mine too, but I couldn't stop watching his face. The slight furrow between his brows as he concentrated. The way he absently touched his bottom lip with his index finger while he read.
"The duck comes highly recommended," Jules said, looking up suddenly and catching me staring.
