Page 34 of The Cyrano Situation
"And Cyril?" I added, unable to help myself. "Wear the blue shirt. The one with the subtle pattern. It brings out your eyes."
His face lit up. "You're the best, Hart. Seriously. I don't know what I'd do without you."
I smiled tightly giving him the now standard response to the now standard compliment. "That's what friends are for."
After he left, I sat motionless for several minutes, staring at the wall where a framed reproduction of a Hogarth print hungslightly askew. I should straighten it, I thought distantly. I should straighten a lot of things.
Instead, I turned back to my work with a sigh.
The texting ritual began that night around eleven. By then, I'd made it through half a bottle of moderately priced Cabernet and was sprawled on my sofa, pretending to watch a documentary about coral reefs while actually contemplating the slow death of my dignity.
My phone buzzed.
Cyril:SOS. Jules just texted something about Austen and I don't know how to respond without sounding like an idiot.
I sat up, setting my wine glass on the coffee table.
Hart:What exactly did he say?
Cyril:"Been thinking about our conversation at dinner. Your take on Austen's social commentary made me see her work in a new light. That's rare for me with authors I've studied so extensively."
I stared at the message, feeling a peculiar mixture of pride and despair. The conversation Cyril had referenced had been all Cyril's thoughts on Austen and, honestly, I'd kind of tuned out about halfway through. I racked my brain for something he'd told me.
Hart:Tell him: "I've always found her precision with language fascinating—how she can deliver such sharp social critique with such delicate phrasing. Your perspective on her work makes me want to revisit her novels with fresh eyes."
I watched the typing indicator pulse for a moment.
Cyril:That's perfect. But maybe too perfect? I don't want to sound like I'm trying too hard.
I sighed, taking another sip of wine. Those were his words.
Hart:Then add something more personal at the end. Something like: "Your perspective makes me braver aboutexpressing my own literary opinions. I usually keep those thoughts to myself."
Cyril:YES. That's exactly right. You're a genius.
Hart:I know. Now go get 'em, tiger.
I set my phone down, staring at the muted television where vibrant coral formations swayed in ocean currents. Somewhere across town, Jules was reading my words and attributing them to Cyril. Somewhere across town, the person I couldn't stop thinking about was falling for someone else, aided and abetted by my own literary ventriloquism.
I picked up my wine glass again, draining it in one long swallow. I was literally ghost-writing my own heartbreak, crafting the perfect romantic messages for someone else to send to the person I wanted. If it weren't happening to me, I'd find it darkly amusing, perhaps even worthy of a contemporary tragicomedy.
But it was happening to me, and there was nothing remotely amusing about the hollow feeling expanding in my chest.
My phone buzzed again.
Cyril:He responded! "I'd love to hear more of your thoughts sometime. Maybe we could have a private book club of sorts."
I closed my eyes briefly, then typed:
Hart:"I'd like nothing better. Your apartment or mine?"
Cyril:Is that too forward?
Hart:It's the third date, Cyril. A little forward is appropriate.
Cyril:You're right. Sending now.
I turned my phone face-down on the coffee table and reached for the wine bottle. This was becoming pathological, this need to orchestrate Cyril's romantic success even as it drove daggers into my own heart. And yet I couldn't seem to stop myself.
