Page 4 of The Cyrano Situation
It was enough. It had always been enough.
Hadn't it?
Chapter Two - A Dating Coach
Hart
I'vealwaysbeenapeople person. My mom says I came out of the womb smiling, and I've pretty much kept it up for the last thirty-four years. People are fascinating to me—all those dreams and fears and quirky little habits bundled up in human packages. And Cyril Nolan might be the most fascinating package of them all.
I'm Hart Fielding, by the way. Publicity director at Pinnacle Publishing by day, amateur human puzzle-solver by night. Or, well, all the time, really.
The morning after our coffee shop detour, I found myself thinking about Cyril while I waited for my toaster to pop. The man counts his steps to the bathroom, for crying out loud. Fourteen of them, precisely. Who does that? It's both weird and weirdly endearing, like most things about him. The way his forehead creases in concentration when he counts. I could almost trace the pattern from memory now.
My toast popped up and, once again, was slightly burned because I can never get the setting adjusted just right, and I slathered it with peanut butter while scrolling through my phone. Three new matches on Hinge that I swiped past with barely a glance. A text from my sister about Mom's birthday next month, and an email from our production department about from our production department about Melissa Gibbon's book tour.
But my mind kept drifting back to Cyril and his fourteen steps. I caught myself smiling at the memory of his methodical movements, the careful precision in everything he did. There was something comforting about his routines, something that made me want to learn all his little patterns and habits. I wondered what other numbers Cyril kept track of in that fascinating brain of his. And why I suddenly cared so much about finding out.
The way he'd looked so affronted at the suggestion of dating apps, like I'd proposed he take up skydiving in the nude. The careful way he ate his sandwich, one precise bite after another. The flicker of something in his eyes I knew he'd never admit to when I'd offered to help. Was it loneliness? Curiosity? I wasn't sure.
He needed someone. That much was obvious to anyone with eyes and half a brain. Not just anyone, though. Cyril needed someone who would understand his quirks, appreciate his dry humor, and maybe, gently, help him step outside those carefully drawn lines he lived within.
I finished my toast, downed my coffee (a home-brewed approximation of yesterday's honey cardamom creation), and headed out the door. But instead of my usual podcast, I found myself opening the dating apps on my phone, studying them with new eyes.
What would Cyril's profile look like? Not the basic stats—though those were impressive enough: 36, head editor at a respected publishing house, master's in comparative literature, fluent in French and "conversational" in Italian (I'd heard him on the phone with an Italian author once, and it sounded pretty damn fluent to me). No, I mean the real Cyril. The one who counts his steps and has elbow patches on his cardigans and could eviscerate a bad manuscript with surgical precision.
By the time I reached the office, a plan was forming.
I spent the morning in meetings about Melissa's tour, arguing for a stop in Seattle that the finance department didn't want to spring for. ("It's the most literate city in America!" I insisted. "Their idea of a wild Friday night is browsing at Elliott Bay Book Company!")
At lunch, I ducked out to grab a sandwich from the deli around the corner and brought it back to my office. Then, with the door closed, I opened my laptop and navigated to a dating site I'd used before—one that emphasized profiles and compatibility over swiping and immediate gratification.
"This is probably crossing a line," I muttered to myself as I clicked "Create New Account." But sometimes lines needed crossing. For the greater good. For Cyril's good, specifically.
I hesitated at the username field. It couldn't be anything obviously connected to Cyril, but it should reflect him somehow. After a moment's thought, I typed: LiteraryMinded36.
The basic stats were easy enough. Age, height (I'd guess about 5'10"), education. For the profile picture, I hit a snag. I couldn't use an actual photo of Cyril—that would be a step too far even for me, and besides, he'd be recognized instantly if anyone from work saw it.
Instead, I found a stock photo of a bookshelf that looked suitably intellectual without being pretentious. I'd explain thelack of photos in the profile text. Something about privacy and wanting to connect based on interests first.
Speaking of interests...
I opened a new tab and pulled up ChatGPT. "I need help crafting a dating profile for a literary-minded introvert who loves structure and routine," I typed. "He's intelligent, analytical, and has a dry sense of humor. He works in publishing and appreciates fine literature, particularly Japanese mysteries and literary fiction with unreliable narrators."
The AI responded with a generic profile that missed the mark entirely. Too many exclamation points, not enough specificity. Cyril would hate it.
I tried again. "More specific, please. This person has particular tastes. He drinks black coffee exclusively, counts his steps, and arranges his books by a system only he understands. He's not looking for adventure but for someone who appreciates quiet evenings and thoughtful conversation. He's put off by excessive enthusiasm but values genuine connection."
This time, the response was closer, but still not quite right. It sounded like a caricature of an introvert, not the complex, fascinating man I was trying to represent.
I decided to take a different approach. "Let's discuss some books," I typed. "What would you say about Kazuo Ishiguro's 'The Remains of the Day' in terms of its exploration of duty versus personal fulfillment?"
The AI gave a thoughtful, nuanced response about Stevens the butler and his repressed emotions. Now we were getting somewhere.
"And what about the use of unreliable narrators in contemporary fiction? How does it challenge our understanding of truth and perspective?"
Another detailed, intellectual response. I copied portions of these analyses, modified them slightly, and began crafting a profile that felt authentically Cyril.
"I find comfort in routine and meaning in literature," I wrote. "My ideal evening involves a well-brewed cup of tea (or a glass of burgundy, depending on the book in hand) and an author who understands that the spaces between words often speak louder than the words themselves."
