Page 47 of The Cyrano Situation
I stared at him, suddenly unable to form words, an unusual predicament for someone who traffics in them professionally.
"If you'd rather I leave—" he started.
"No," I said quickly, too quickly. "Please. Come in."
He hesitated, then stepped into my office, placing the coffee on my desk. He moved to close the door—an audience would have been unwelcome for whatever was about to transpire.
"You've were gone all week," I said, immediately regretting the accusatory tone.
"Yeah." Hart ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture I'd rarely seen from him. "I thought you might need space. And honestly, I needed some too."
I nodded, picking up the coffee cup more for something to do with my hands than any desire for caffeine. "Thank you for this."
"It's just coffee."
"No, it's not." I met his eyes then. "It's never been just coffee with you."
Something flickered across his face—hope, perhaps, but quickly tamped down. "Cyril, I don't want to make things awkward. I value our friendship too much. If you want to forget what I said—"
"I don't." The words came out before I could analyze them, edit them, perfect them. Raw, unfiltered truth. "I don't want to forget."
Hart went very still. "Okay," he said carefully. "What do you want?"
That was the question, wasn't it? What did I want? I'd spent a week turning it over in my mind, examining it from every angle like a difficult manuscript that refused to reveal its themes.
"I want to talk," I said finally. "Really talk. Not here, though."
He nodded. "After work? The coffee shop downstairs?"
"Yes." I gave him a tentative smile, which he returned. A small one, but genuine. "Five-thirty?"
"I'll be there." He lingered a moment longer, as though there was more he wanted to say, then turned to leave.
"Hart," I called after him. He paused in the doorway. "I'm glad you're back."
His smile widened slightly. "Me too, Cy."
The rest of the day passed in a blur of anticipation and anxiety. I called Jules during my lunch break, our conversation slightly less strained than previous ones, though still not back to normal.
"You sound better today," he observed.
"Do I?"
"Yes. More... present."
I felt a pang of guilt. "Jules, there's something I need to tell you. Not over the phone, though."
"That sounds ominous," he said, his tone light but with an undercurrent of concern.
"It's not—well, I don't know what it is, exactly. I'm still figuring things out."
"Does this have anything to do with why you've been so distant this week?"
I hesitated. "Yes."
"I see." He was quiet for a moment. "Would it help if I came to you? I could come by your office this evening."
The offer was tempting in its simplicity. Jules coming here would force a resolution, one way or another. But it also felt like cheating somehow—taking a shortcut through the emotional work I needed to do.
