Page 49 of The Cyrano Situation
"It's only fair I talk to him in person. I met his parents. We never used the 'l' word but we…"
Hart's ears reddened. "Yeah, don't remind me."
I shook my head slowly. "He is special to me. He's a great person and I don't want to hurt him and he we have so much in common but… he doesn't know me—not the way you do." I reached across the table, hesitantly placing my hand over his. "I need to tell him the truth. That I can't continue to pursue something with him when I have feelings for someone else."
Hart turned his hand, interlacing our fingers. The simple touch sent electricity up my arm. "And what about us? What happens next?"
I laughed softly. "I have no idea. And I'm usually the one with the five-year plan."
"I'm okay with figuring it out as we go," Hart said, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "As long as we're figuring it out together."
We sat there, hands linked, eyes locked, the noise of the coffee shop fading into background static. I felt something shift inside me—a realization that some things couldn't be edited into perfection or analyzed until they made sense. Some things just had to be felt.
"Cy," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes?"
"I would really like to kiss you now."
My stomach launched into what felt like an entire Cirque du Soleil performance—complete with trapeze artists and someone juggling flaming torches—as my lips curled up in a smile. “I think I'd be okay with that.”
I leaned forward, hesitantly at first, then with growing certainty. Hart met me halfway, his free hand coming up to cup my cheek. When our lips touched, it wasn't the explosive passion romance novels always described. It was softer, gentler. A question being answered, a conversation without words.
His lips were warm and slightly sweet from the chocolate in his coffee. I felt his smile against my mouth, and I couldn't help smiling back, our kiss breaking momentarily before resuming with more confidence. My hand found its way to his nape, steadying myself as the world seemed to tilt on its axis.
According to poets throughout history, a first kiss can last a moment or an eternity. This one seemed to exist outside of time entirely—a perfect pause in the universe.
Until a familiar voice broke through our bubble.
"Cyril?"
We pulled apart, startled. Standing beside our table, expression frozen in shock, was Jules. His eyes wide with hurt and confusion as he looked between Hart and me.
"Jules," I managed, my voice strangled. "What are you doing here?"
"You sounded so strange on the phone. I was worried." His gaze shifted to Hart. "I'm sorry, I don't think we've met."
Hart cleared his throat, his hand still holding mine across the table. "
I'm Hart. Hart Fielding.
Recognition dawned in Jules' eyes. "Hart? Your friend from work? " He trailed off, comprehension replacing confusion. "The one that had been helping you with your text messages?"
The silence that followed was deafening, a black hole collapsing in on itself.
"I think," Jules said carefully, "that someone needs to explain what's going on."
And just like that, the perfect moment shattered into a thousand impossible pieces, leaving me with the realization that sometimes, the most carefully constructed narratives fall apart with a single unexpected plot twist.
Chapter Fifteen - Defining the Tropes
Cyril
Themomentstretchedbetweenus like taffy—sweet, tense, and potentially extremely messy. Jules stood before our table, his expression unreadable, as Hart and I froze mid-kiss. My mind, ever the analytical engine even in crisis, unhelpfully supplied that this precise scenario appeared in approximately 73.4% of all romantic comedies, typically at the 75-minute mark. The uncomfortable silence had already lasted 8.2 seconds longer than socially acceptable.
"I can explain," Hart and I said simultaneously, which only made things worse.
Jules raised an eyebrow, and I noticed he was holding a worn copy of Proust'sIn Search of Lost Time, which seemed poetically appropriate for the moment. A man confronting time lost to misunderstandings.
