Page 32 of The Cyrano Situation
During a lull in conversation, I couldn't resist. "Sorry, just need to check on that work thing again," I said, pulling out my phone.
No new messages from Hart. I quickly typed:
Me: He keeps noticing me checking my phone. I think he's annoyed. What do I talk about next?
"Cyril," Jules said, his voice gentle but firm. "Is everything alright?"
"Of course," I said too quickly. "Why?"
"You seem... distracted. If you need to handle something for work, I understand. We can do this another time."
"No!" The word came out louder than I intended. A couple at a nearby table glanced over. "No," I repeated more quietly. "I'm having a great time. I'm sorry if it seems otherwise."
Jules set down his fork. "Can I ask you something directly?"
My stomach dropped. "Sure."
"Who are you texting?"
The question hung in the air between us. My phone chose that moment to vibrate with Hart's reply. I didn't dare look at it.
"Just a coworker," I said, which wasn't a lie.
"The same one who helped you prepare for our coffee date?" Jules asked, his expression unreadable.
I froze. "What?"
"You mentioned someone named Hart had suggested the café we met at." Jules' voice was calm, but his eyes were intent on mine. "Are you texting him right now? For... advice about our date?"
The blood drained from my face. This was it. Game over. I'd been caught.
"I—" My voice failed me. What would Hart say? But that was exactly the problem, wasn't it? I couldn't keep relying on Hart's words. Jules was looking at me, waiting formywords.
I took a deep breath and decided to try something radical: the truth.
"Yes," I admitted, my voice barely audible over the ambient restaurant noise. "I'm texting Hart."
Jules nodded slowly. "Why?"
I stared down at my half-eaten duck. "Because I'm terrified of saying the wrong thing and ruining this. Because you're brilliant and interesting and way out of my league. Becausewithout Hart's coaching, I'm just... me. And that doesn't feel like enough."
The silence that followed felt eternal. I couldn't bring myself to look at Jules' face. This was it—the moment he'd realize what a fraud I was and walk out.
"Cyril," he finally said, "look at me."
Reluctantly, I raised my eyes to meet his.
"Do you think I agreed to go out with a ghostwriter? That I've been enjoying conversations with Hart all this time?"
"No, but—"
"No buts. Every message we've exchanged, every conversation we've had—even if Hart suggested certain topics or phrases—it was still you. Your knowledge, your passion, your way of seeing the world." Jules leaned forward. "I'm interested inyou, Cyril. Not some curated version of you."
"But I'm a mess," I said before I could stop myself. "I overthink everything. I get paralyzed by social anxiety. I abandoned my dissertation because I couldn't handle the pressure. I'm not... smooth or confident or any of the things someone like you deserves."
Jules smiled, and it was so genuine it made my chest ache. "And you think I am? Cyril, I spend most of my days talking to books because they're safer than people. I rehearse casual conversations in my head before department meetings. I once hid in a supply closet for twenty minutes to avoid small talk with the dean."
I blinked at him. "But you seem so... composed."
