Page 40 of The Cyrano Situation
Monday morning brought a gray drizzle that matched my mood perfectly. I arrived at Pinnacle Publishing earlier than usual, hoping to catch Hart before the day's meetings began. His office was dark when I passed by, his desk untouched from Friday.
I hesitated outside his door, then continued to my own office. Maybe he was running late. I'd check again after I sorted through my weekend emails.
An hour later, there was still no sign of him. I was halfway to his office again when I ran into Marissa from HR in the hallway.
"Morning, Cyril," she said, juggling a stack of folders. "If you're looking for Hart, he's not in today. Called out sick."
My stomach twisted. "Sick? Did he say what was wrong?"
She shook her head. "Just that he wasn't feeling well. Might be out tomorrow, too."
"Thanks," I mumbled, already turning back toward my office.
Hart, sick? In all the time I'd known him, he'd never taken a sick day. He once came to work with a 102-degree fever because he didn't want to miss a major publicity meeting. The man was stubborn about his perfect attendance record.
I closed my office door and pulled out my phone, sending another text:
Me:Heard you're sick. Can I bring you anything? Soup? Medicine? Let me know.
I waited, watching the screen. Nothing.
The rest of the morning passed in a distracted blur. I went through the motions of my work, responding to emails, reviewing manuscripts, attending a department meeting, but my thoughts kept drifting to Hart. By lunchtime, my worry had morphed into something closer to panic.
What if he wasreallysick? What if something had happened to him?
Or what if—and this thought stung more than I expected—he simply didn't want to talk to me anymore?
I couldn't focus on anything. After staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes, I finally gave up. Whatever was going on with Hart, I needed to find out. If he wouldn't respond to my messages, I'd have to take more direct action.
I knocked on Rebecca's door and made up a story about a personal emergency. She waved me off with barely a glance, too engrossed in a manuscript to question my sudden departure.
Twenty minutes later, I was standing outside Hart's apartment building, rainwater dripping from my hair and jacket. I'd been to his place a handful of times, more often lately since he’d been coaching me. It was in an old converted brownstone with only one apartment per floor. I was a little jealous of it truth be told. Hart had great taste.
I buzzed his apartment. No response. I tried again, holding the button longer.
Still nothing.
A woman exited the building, and I caught the door before it closed, mumbling something about forgetting my keys. She gave me a suspicious look but continued on her way. I took the elevator to the fourth floor, rehearsing what I would say when Hart opened his door.
If he opened his door.
I knocked, the sound echoing in the hallway. "Hart? It's Cyril."
Silence.
I knocked again, louder this time. "Hart, I know you're in there. I just want to make sure you're okay."
I heard movement inside, a shuffle, then footsteps. The deadbolt turned, and the door opened a crack, revealing Hart's face. My relief at seeing him quickly turned to concern.
He looked terrible. His usually meticulously styled hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot and underlined by dark circles. He was wearing a faded t-shirt and sweatpants. It was a far cry from his typical impeccable appearance.
"What are you doing here, Cyril?" His voice was flat, lifeless.
"You weren't answering my texts or calls. I got worried." I shifted uncomfortably in the hallway. "Marissa said you were sick."
"I am sick." But he didn't sound congested or feverish. He sounded... empty.
"Can I come in?"
