Page 36 of The Cyrano Situation
I carefully marked my place in the manuscript I was reviewing and looked up. "That sounds promising."
"It is. It's just—" He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I'd come to recognize as a sign of anxiety. "I don't want to mess this up. It feels important, you know? Like a turning point."
"I understand." I gestured to the chair across from me. "Have a seat. Tell me what you're thinking."
He dropped into the chair, his long legs sprawling in that careless way that always made my chest tighten. "Should I bring something? Wine seems obvious, but is it too obvious? And what about after dinner? If he invites me to stay, should I? Is that moving too fast?"
I took a deep breath, mentally donning my supportive friend armor. "Flowers are always appreciated. Nothing too extravagant—perhaps a small bouquet of something seasonal. And yes to wine, but also consider bringing dessert. Something you can share. As for staying over..." I paused, choosing my words carefully. "That's entirely up to you and Jules. There's no right timeline, only what feels comfortable for both of you."
He nodded, absorbing this. "Dessert is good. Jules mentioned liking tiramisu once."
"Perfect." I forced a smile. "Tiramisu it is."
"And you think flowers, too? Not overkill?"
"Not at all. Flowers show thoughtfulness. They say you were thinking about the evening, about making it special."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "What kind, though? I don't know anything about flower meanings or whatever."
"Nothing too romantic yet. No red roses." I thought for a moment. "Perhaps dahlias? They're in season, and they symbolize dignity and elegance. Or sunflowers. They're simple, cheerful, unpretentious."
"Sunflowers," he decided. "Jules has this bright yellow mug he always uses. I bet he'd like sunflowers."
I nodded, ignoring the pang in my chest. Of course he'd noticed such a detail. Of course he'd make the connection. "Sunflowers it is, then."
"Thanks, Hart." His smile was warm, genuine. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Probably muddle through like the rest of us," I said lightly. "You give me too much credit."
"No, I don't think I do." His expression grew serious. "You always know exactly what to say, exactly how to handle things. It's like you have this perfect understanding of what people want, what they need."
I looked away, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. "Not always," I said quietly.
"Well, you've been right about everything with Jules so far." He stood, stretching slightly. "I should let you get back to work. I just wanted to check in about tomorrow."
"Of course. Any time." I managed another smile. "Let me know how it goes."
"I will." He paused at the door. "You're the best, Hart. Seriously."
After he left, I sat motionless, staring at the empty doorway. The best. At what, exactly? At orchestrating my own emotional torment? At helping someone I cared about pursue someone else? At maintaining a façade of friendly detachment while my insides twisted themselves into knots?
Yes, I supposed I was the best at all of those things. Hart Fielding, best in show.
Chapter Eleven - Sex Ed
Hart
Weeksturnedintoamonth. It's remarkable how routine could both sustain and erode you simultaneously. I had perfected the art of separating work-Hart and friend/dating coach Hart.
The former functions with clinical precision, creating campaigns, leading team meetings, cajoling melting down authors. The latter retreats into a private world of quiet resignation, where I've learned to breathe through the moments when Cyril mentions Jules.
And he mentions Jules often.
I've developed strategies. When Cyril appears in my doorway with that particular look—the one that means he wants to talk about his boyfriend—I mentally recite statistical analyses of marketing trends or rehearse taglines for upcoming books. It creates just enough distance to maintain my professional demeanor while the rest of me crumbles silently.
Today at lunch, I'm dissecting a tuna sandwich at my desk when Cyril finds me. His face is bright with something new, and I brace myself.
"Jules wants me to meet his parents," he announces, dropping into the chair across from me.
