Page 30 of The Cyrano Situation
I dropped my gaze to my untouched menu. "Duck. Right. That sounds good."
"You haven't even looked at the menu, Cyril," he said, his voice warm with amusement.
"I trust your judgment," I replied, which was true but also conveniently masked my inability to focus on anything but him.
Our coffee date had gone surprisingly well. All the way to the restaurant, I’d been replaying our conversations in my head, analyzing Jules' smiles and the way his hand had briefly touched mine when we reached for the sugar simultaneously. But that had been coffee—casual, daytime, limited scope for disaster. This was dinner. The stakes felt astronomically higher.
"So," Jules set his menu down, "tell me more about your work at Pinnacle. Any exciting manuscripts cross your desk lately?"
This was safe territory. I could talk about books without Hart's coaching.
"Actually, yes. There's this fascinating historical fiction piece about a librarian in Alexandria who tries to save scrolls before the library burns. The author's research is impeccable, and the prose is..." I trailed off, suddenly self-conscious about my enthusiasm. "Sorry. I can get carried away."
Jules leaned forward. "Don't apologize. I love your passion. It's refreshing to see someone genuinely excited about literature rather than just viewing it as academic currency."
The waiter appeared at that moment, saving me from having to process the compliment. Jules ordered the duck for both of us, plus a bottle of wine that I couldn't pronounce but nodded at appreciatively like I knew what it was.
As the waiter walked away, Jules continued, "I've been meaning to ask—what drew you to editing specifically? Rather than writing yourself?"
My throat tightened. This question always made me uncomfortable, mainly because the honest answer was fear. Fear of putting my own words out there to be judged. Fear of failing at the thing I loved most.
"I, um—" I fumbled, wishing I had prepared for this question.
Hart would know what to say. Hart always knew.
"Excuse me," I said. "Bathroom. I'll be right back."
Jules nodded, and I escaped to the restroom, phone already in hand. Once safely behind the locked door, I texted Hart.
Me: SOS. Dinner going OK but he asked why editing not writing. What do I say?
I waited, watching the three dots appear and disappear. Come on, Hart.
Hart: Tell him you love being the first to discover new voices. That you find more satisfaction in helping writers realize their vision than creating your own. You're a curator with an eye for potential.
I exhaled with relief. Perfect.
Hart: Also, stop hiding in the bathroom and texting me. You've got this.
Me: How did you know I was in the bathroom??
Hart: Where else would you be having a panic text? Now go get him, tiger.
I slipped my phone into my pocket and returned to the table, where our wine had arrived. Jules was swirling his glass gently, watching the liquid catch the light.
"Sorry about that," I said, sliding back into my seat.
"No problem. We were talking about editing versus writing?"
I took a fortifying sip of wine and channeled Hart's advice. "I've always loved being the first to discover new voices. There's something magical about seeing the potential in someone's work and helping them shape it into something even better. I find more satisfaction in that process than I think I would creating my own stories."
It wasn't a lie, not really. It just wasn't the whole truth.
Jules' expression brightened. "That's beautiful, Cyril. Like a midwife for literature."
I nearly choked on my wine. "I've never thought of it that way, but yes, exactly."
"Though I suspect you'd be a wonderful writer too," he added, eyes holding mine a moment longer than necessary.
