Page 31 of The Cyrano Situation
The first course arrived which was some artful arrangement of beets and goat cheese that looked more like installation art than food. As we ate, Jules told me about a student who'd written a brilliant thesis connecting modern meme culture to ancient Greek satire. I found myself laughing easily, the wine and Jules' natural warmth loosening the knot of anxiety in my chest.
Until he asked: "So what was your dissertation on? I'm sure it was fascinating."
My dissertation. My unfinished, abandoned dissertation that represented the point when my academic career had crashed and burned. The thing I never talked about. How did he find the exact two things that I tried to avoid talking about at all costs?
"Oh, it was—" I started, then faltered. "Actually, I never finished it."
Jules' expression was neutral, but I imagined judgment behind those intelligent eyes. Why hadn't I prepared for this? Of course a literature professor would ask about my academic background.
"That happens to many people," he said gently. "Academia isn't for everyone."
But his kindness only made me feel worse. I didn't want his pity.
"Excuse me again," I mumbled. "Just need to check something quickly."
I didn't wait for his response before pulling out my phone under the table.
Me: He asked about my dissertation. I told him I didn't finish it. Now he pities me. Help.
I glanced up. Jules was taking a sip of wine, but I caught his eyes flicking toward my phone. Embarrassment flooded through me. Was I being rude? I quickly put my phone face-down on the table.
"Sorry," I said. "Work thing."
"On a Friday night?" Jules raised an eyebrow, but his tone remained light. "Pinnacle must keep you busy."
"Sometimes," I said vaguely, wishing my phone would vibrate with Hart's reply. "Anyway, yes, I started a dissertation on the evolution of unreliable narrators from Poe to postmodernism, but... life happened."
"That sounds fascinating," Jules said, and the genuine interest in his voice made my chest ache. "What aspects of unreliable narration were you focusing on?"
This was both the best and worst question he could have asked. Best because it was something I could talk about passionately for hours. Worst because once I started, my academic inadequacy would become obvious.
I felt my phone vibrate against the table. Thank god.
"Sorry," I said again, reaching for it. "Let me just make sure this isn't urgent."
Hart: Don't get defensive. Own it. "Academic writing wasn't where my passion truly lay. I found I could contribute more meaningfully to literature through editing." Then redirect to asking about HIS research.
I nodded to myself, but when I looked up, Jules was watching me with an unreadable expression.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Yes, fine," I said, putting my phone away. "Just a... colleague with a question about a manuscript."
"On a Friday night," Jules repeated, the hint of a question in his voice.
"We have a tight deadline," I lied, hating myself for it. "Anyway, about my dissertation—I realized academic writing wasn't where my passion truly lay. I found I could contribute more meaningfully to literature through editing." The words felt rehearsed even to my own ears. "What about your research? I'd love to hear more about what you're working on."
Jules studied me for a moment. "Currently I'm exploring representations of authenticity in digital-age literature. How technology mediates our connections and whether genuine communication is possible when filtered through screens."
The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, filtering our conversation through Hart's coaching, proving Jules' research thesis in real time.
"That's... timely," I managed.
"Indeed." Jules took another sip of wine. "You know, it's interesting how much we rely on our phones now, even during face-to-face interactions."
Was that a pointed comment? I couldn't tell. My anxiety ratcheted up several notches.
Our main courses arrived, saving me from having to respond. The duck looked and smelled amazing, but my appetite had vanished. I pushed food around my plate while Jules talked about a conference he'd attended in Boston last month. I tried to focus, to be present, but my mind kept returning to my phone, wondering if Hart had sent follow-up advice.
