Page 48 of The Cyrano Situation
"Not tonight," I said. "I have something I need to do first. But soon. I promise."
After we hung up, I stared at my phone, wondering if I'd just made things better or worse. According to decision theory, the human brain often creates false dichotomies—this or that, black or white—when reality offers infinite gradations of possibility. I was trying to see my situation as a simple choice betweentwo men, when perhaps the real choice was about what kind of person I wanted to be.
By five-fifteen, I could no longer pretend to work. I shut down my computer, straightened my desk out of habit, and headed for the elevator. Hart was already gone from his office. Had he left early? Changed his mind?
The coffee shop was busy with the after-work crowd when I arrived. I scanned the room, my heart sinking when I didn't immediately see Hart. Then I spotted him at a corner table, two fresh coffees in front of him, his leg bouncing slightly—a tell of his own nervousness.
He saw me at the same moment, raising a hand in greeting. I navigated through the crowd, my pulse quickening with each step.
"Hi," I said, sliding into the chair across from him.
"Hi yourself." He pushed one of the coffees toward me. "Black, one and a half…"
"Sugars," I finished with him, earning a small smile.
We sat in silence for a moment, the ambient noise of the coffee shop creating a bubble around us. Hart was rarely quiet. He filled silences the way nature abhors a vacuum. His restraint now spoke volumes about his uncertainty.
"I missed you last week," I said finally, deciding that if ever there was a time for directness, it was now.
Hart's eyes softened. "I missed you, too. More than I expected, honestly."
"Why didn't you come to work? Were you really sick?"
He grimaced. "Not physically. But I couldn't face you, not right away. I was embarrassed. And scared."
"Scared?" The concept of Hart being afraid of anything was foreign to me. He was the most confident person I knew.
"Terrified," he admitted. "I've never told anyone I loved them before. Not like that."
The reminder of his words sent a shiver through me. "I've been thinking about that all week."
"Having regrets about running away?" His tone was light, but his eyes were serious.
"I didn't run away," I protested, then sighed. "Okay, maybe I did. But I needed to process."
"And have you? Processed?"
I took a deep breath. "I realized something this last week. When you weren't there, it was like... like the office lost its center of gravity. Everything was off-balance. I kept turning to tell you things or reaching for my phone to text you. And every time I remembered why you weren't there, it hurt."
Hart was watching me intently now, his coffee forgotten. "What are you saying, Cy?"
"I'm saying that I've been so focused on analyzing everything that I missed what was right in front of me." I met his gaze directly. "You."
His breath caught audibly. "Me?"
"You're my best friend. The person who knows me better than anyone. The one who pushes me out of my comfort zone and makes me laugh and brings me coffee exactly how I like it." I swallowed hard. "And I think... no, I know... that I have feelings for you that go beyond friendship."
Hart's expression transformed, hope blooming across his features like sunrise. "You do?"
"I do. And it terrifies me because I've never felt this way before. I can't analyze it or edit it or put it into neat paragraphs. It's messy and complicated and completely illogical."
"Love usually is," he said softly.
The word hung between us. Love. Was that what this was? This ache when he wasn't near, this comfort when he was, this desire to be better, braver, more honest?
"There's something else," I continued, knowing I needed to get everything out while I had the courage. "Jules."
Hart's expression dimmed slightly. "Right. Jules."
