Page 33 of The Cyrano Situation
"Years of practice. And medication." He shrugged. "My point is, we're all performing to some degree. The difference is, I'd like to get to know the real you, not the performance."
My phone vibrated again. We both looked at it.
"Go ahead," Jules said. "See what words of wisdom Hart has for you now."
Hesitantly, I checked the message.
Hart: Tell him the truth. If he's worth it, he'll understand. If not, at least you'll know. Also, stop texting me and TALK TO THE MAN SITTING ACROSS FROM YOU.
I couldn't help the small laugh that escaped me. I turned the phone around so Jules could see the screen.
"Sound advice," Jules said, smiling. "Hart seems like a good friend."
"He is," I admitted. "He's been trying to get me out of my shell for ages. But I think I've been using him as a crutch."
"We all need support sometimes," Jules said. "Though perhaps not mid-date texting support."
Heat rose to my face. "I'm really sorry about that. It was rude and dishonest and—"
"And human," Jules finished for me. "Cyril, I'm not angry. If anything, I'm flattered that you care so much about making a good impression." He reached across the table and, after a moment's hesitation, placed his hand over mine. "But I'd rather have an imperfect, authentic conversation with you than a perfect, scripted one."
His hand was warm against mine, and I found myself turning my palm upward so our fingers could intertwine. It felt more intimate than anything we'd done so far.
"I can't promise I won't be awkward," I said.
"I'm counting on it," Jules replied with a grin. "Awkward is my comfort zone."
"In that case..." I took a deep breath, turned my phone face-down, and pushed it to the edge of the table. "Tell me more about this student's meme thesis. It sounds genuinely fascinating."
Jules' face lit up, and as he launched into an explanation of classical satire structures in modern internet humor, I felt something inside me relax. Not completely—my anxiety wasn'tgoing to vanish in one evening—but enough to be present in this moment, with this man who somehow saw through my carefully constructed facade and was still sitting across from me, his hand in mine.
Maybe being just me wasn't so terrifying after all.
Chapter Ten - Best in Show
Hart
I'vealwaysbeenanexcellent actor. This is not self-aggrandizement, just a statement of fact. It's a skill I've honed through years of pretending to be fascinated by authors explaining the minute details of nineteenth-century wallpaper patterns, or appearing deeply moved by yet another mediocre dissertation on the symbolism of doorways in Gothic literature that I had to figure out how to make the public interested in. The academy rewards performance almost as much as it does actual scholarship.
So, when Cyril burst into my office on a Tuesday afternoon, practically vibrating with excitement, I did what I do best. I set aside the stats from the Jenkins campaign, leaned back in my chair, and arranged my features into a mask of friendly interest.
"Third date tonight," he announced, dropping into the chair across from my desk. "Ethiopian place on Elmwood."
"Excellent choice," I said, as though my heart wasn't performing an elaborate gymnastic routine in my chest. "Authentic cuisine, interesting cultural experience. Shows you're adventurous without being pretentious."
Cyril nodded eagerly. "That's what I thought. Jules suggested it, actually. Said something about wanting to try food you eat with your hands."
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. "Smart. Sensual eating experience. Sharing food from the same plate creates intimacy."
"That's what I was hoping." He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that was frustratingly endearing. "And, you know, third date."
"Traditionally when things might progress," I supplied, my voice impressively steady.
"Exactly." He looked at me with a mixture of hope and anxiety that made me want to simultaneously shake him and hold him. "Any advice?"
I considered this, mentally cataloging what I knew about Jules from our limited interactions and from everything Cyril had shared. "Be attentive. Ask questions about the food, about the experience. Make it clear you're interested in their perspective. And don't rush. Let the evening unfold naturally."
"Right. Naturally." He nodded seriously, as though I'd imparted profound wisdom instead of dating platitudes.
