Page 3 of The Cyrano Situation
I paused, my sandwich halfway to my mouth. "Helped me what?"
"With dating. Finding someone. I'm good at it—the whole getting-to-know-people thing." He said this without a trace of arrogance, simply stating what he perceived as fact. "I could be like your... dating coach."
"My dating coach," I repeated flatly.
"Yeah! I could help you create a profile that actually represents you, not just the basic stats. And I could help screen potentialmatches." His eyes were bright with enthusiasm. "It would be fun!"
"For whom, exactly?"
"For both of us! You get to meet interesting people without dealing with all the parts you hate, and I get to..." He trailed off, seemingly at a loss.
"Play matchmaker with my life?"
"Help a friend," he finished, his expression suddenly serious. "Look, Cyril, I know we're not exactly close, but I like you. You're smart and funny in that dry way, and you deserve someone who appreciates that. Someone who gets your whole..." he waved his fork again, "thing."
"My 'thing,'" I echoed.
"You know what I mean."
I did, which was perhaps the most unsettling part of this conversation. Despite our differences—or perhaps because of them—Hart seemed to see me more clearly than most people bothered to.
"I don't need a dating coach," I said finally. "Or a matchmaker. Or whatever it is you're proposing."
Hart leaned forward, his curry momentarily forgotten. "Everyone needs connection, Cyril. Even you, with your perfectly ordered life and your fourteen steps to the bathroom."
I froze. "How did you know about the fourteen steps?"
A deep blush spread across Hart's cheeks, creeping down his neck. "You mentioned it once. At the holiday party last year." His eyes darted away, then back to mine with unexpected intensity. "You'd had two glasses of wine and were explaining your morning routine to the intern from marketing. I was standing by the punch bowl, pretending not to listen." He smiled, a little too softly. "You count them under your breath sometimes too, when you're stressed. Did you know that?"
I had no memory of this, which was disturbing on multiple levels. "Nevertheless, I'm not interested in your proposal."
Hart sat back, studying me with those perceptive eyes. "Okay. Fair enough." He returned to his curry, and for a moment, I thought I'd won. Then he looked up with a small smile. "But if you change your mind..."
"I won't."
"But if you do."
"I won't," I repeated.
Hart nodded, but the smile didn't leave his face. "Okay, Cyril. Whatever you say."
He finished his lunch in companionable silence, occasionally commenting on office gossip that I pretended not to care about. When he left, my office felt strangely empty, as if he'd taken some of the oxygen with him.
I returned to my sandwich, but it tasted bland now. I checked my watch. 1:07. My lunch break was almost over, and I'd barely made a dent in my meal or my reading.
Another disruption to my carefully ordered day.
I wrapped the remainder of my sandwich and put it away, then turned to the stack of manuscripts on my desk. Work, at least, was predictable. Words on a page, red marks in the margins, the steady progress toward a finished book.
But as I picked up my pen, Hart's words echoed in my mind.
Everyone needs connection, Cyril. Even you.
I pushed the thought away and focused on the manuscript before me. There was comfort in the familiar rhythm of reading, analyzing, noting. This was where I belonged, in this quiet office with my books and my thoughts.
Not on dating apps. Not in trendy cafés with complicated coffee drinks. And certainly not under the guidance of Hart Fielding, human golden retriever and self-appointed dating coach.
My life was ordered exactly as I wanted it. Fourteen steps to the bathroom. Three minutes and forty-five seconds in the shower. Black coffee. Predictable meals. Quiet evenings with good books.
