Page 1 of The Cyrano Situation

Chapter One - The Order of My Life

Cyril

T here are precisely fourteen steps from my bed to the bathroom.

This is not a testament to the size of my apartment, but rather to the economy of my stride.

I've counted them every morning for the past four years, a ritual as much a part of my routine as the three-minute, forty-five-second shower that follows.

My name is Cyril Nolan, and I appreciate order.

On Tuesday morning, as predictable as the sunrise, my alarm sounded at 6:15. Not 6:00, which would be too round a number and therefore unsatisfying, and not 6:30, which would leave insufficient time for my morning routine. No, 6:15 provides exactly the right cushion—not too much, not too little.

I silenced the alarm with one practiced motion, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and began my fourteen-step journey to the bathroom.

The wooden floor was cool beneath my feet, the apartment silent save for the distant hum of early morning traffic.

The city never truly sleeps, but at 6:15, it does occasionally doze.

My shower lasted precisely three minutes and forty-five seconds.

I dressed in the clothes I'd laid out the night before—charcoal slacks, a pale blue button-down, and a navy cardigan.

Professional but not ostentatious. The cardigan had elbow patches, which I'm aware might be considered a bit affected for an editor, but I've always found them comforting.

Like having a small shield against the world's chaos.

Breakfast was one slice of whole grain toast (no butter), a small bowl of plain Greek yogurt with precisely seven blueberries, and a cup of black coffee. I do not vary this meal. The predictability is soothing.

By 7:30, I was walking the eleven blocks to Pinnacle Publishing, where I've worked for the past six years. The morning air held the first hints of autumn, and I adjusted my pace to arrive at exactly 7:58, allowing me two minutes to reach my office before my workday officially began.

It was at 7:42, while waiting at the crosswalk at 39th and Madison, that the first disruption occurred.

"Cyril! Hey, Cyril!"

I closed my eyes briefly, steeling myself. There is only one person in my orbit who speaks with that many exclamation points before 8 AM.

Hart Fielding jogged toward me, coffee cup in hand, his messenger bag bouncing against his hip.

Hart is our publicity director, a position that seems to require boundless energy and an almost pathological cheerfulness.

His hair was artfully tousled in that way that suggests either he'd just rolled out of bed or had spent forty-five minutes arranging it to look that way.

Knowing Hart, it was probably the latter.

"I thought that was you!" Hart fell into step beside me as the light changed. "I almost didn't recognize you without your nose in a manuscript."

"Good morning, Hart." I maintained my pace, which meant Hart, who is several inches taller, had to modify his stride. "You're in early."

"Big day! We're finalizing the tour schedule for Melissa Gibbon's new thriller.

Her last one hit the list for sixteen weeks, so the publishers are throwing actual money at the marketing campaign.

" He took a sip of his coffee, which I could smell from two feet away—something with cinnamon and possibly hazelnuts.

"What about you? Working on anything good? "

"I'm reading a promising literary debut. First-person narrative about a lighthouse keeper in Maine who may or may not be losing his mind." I checked my watch. 7:44. Still on schedule.

"Sounds cheery," Hart said, grinning. "Hey, you want to grab coffee? I know a place that does these amazing lavender lattes."

"I don't drink lavender lattes." The very idea made me wince. "And I have coffee at my desk."

"That sludge from the break room doesn't count as coffee. It counts as chemical warfare." Hart gestured with his cup toward a café on the corner. "Come on, live a little. I'm buying."

I checked my watch again. 7:45. If I deviated now, I would be late. But Hart was looking at me with those earnest eyes of his, and I found myself calculating how quickly I could consume a coffee if I were to acquiesce.

"Ten minutes," I said finally. "I can spare ten minutes."

Hart's face lit up as if I'd agreed to fund his Broadway musical rather than simply have coffee with him. "That's the spirit! You won't regret it."

I was already regretting it.

The café was one of those trendy establishments with exposed brick walls, Edison bulbs, and baristas with more tattoos than available skin. The menu was written on a chalkboard in elaborate script that I found unnecessarily difficult to read.

"What'll you have?" Hart asked, already scanning the pastry case with the enthusiasm of a child at a toy store.

"Black coffee. Medium. One sugar."

Hart looked physically pained. "That's it? In a place that offers twenty-three specialty drinks?"

"I like black coffee."

"You like routine," Hart corrected. He turned to the barista, a young woman with blue hair and a septum piercing. "He'll have a medium black coffee, and I'll have a large honey cardamom latte with oat milk and an almond croissant."

I checked my watch again as we waited. 7:49. I would definitely be late now.

"So," Hart said, leaning against the counter. "How's your love life?"

I nearly choked on air. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your love life. Dating. Romance. The horizontal tango." Hart wiggled his eyebrows in a way I found both childish and alarmingly endearing.

"That is absolutely none of your business."

"So, nonexistent then."

The barista called our names, saving me from having to respond. I took my coffee and moved toward the door with purpose.

"Wait, wait," Hart called, grabbing his elaborate beverage and pastry bag. "I didn't mean to offend. I just thought, you know, you might want to get out there."

"Get out where, exactly?" I pushed through the door, back into the morning air.

"The dating scene." Hart fell into step beside me again. "You're smart, you've got that whole professorial vibe going, and you're not bad looking. You should be on the apps."

I nearly stopped walking. "Apps? As in dating applications? Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"Because I have no interest in creating a digital advertisement for myself to be swiped upon like a piece of meat at a deli counter."

Hart laughed, a rich sound that turned heads on the sidewalk. "That's one way to look at it. But it's also a way to meet people you wouldn't normally encounter in your—" he gestured vaguely at me, "—carefully controlled universe."

We had reached the building, and I stopped at the entrance, checking my watch. 7:56. If I hurried, I might still make it to my office by 8:00.

"Hart, I appreciate your concern, misplaced though it may be. But I am perfectly content with my life as it is. I don't need dating apps or lavender lattes or any other disruptions to my routine."

Hart studied me over the rim of his coffee cup, his expression unreadable for once. "Contentment isn't the same as happiness, Cyril."

"Perhaps not for you." I pushed through the revolving door, leaving Hart and his philosophical musings on the sidewalk.

I made it to my office at 8:02, two minutes behind schedule.

A small disruption in the grand scheme of things, but it set the tone for the day.

I spent the morning reviewing manuscripts, making notes in the margins with my red pen (never blue, never pencil), and trying not to think about Hart's comment.

Contentment isn't the same as happiness.

What did he know about it? Hart lived in a perpetual state of enthusiasm that I found exhausting just to witness. Of course he couldn't understand the satisfaction of a well-ordered life, the comfort of routine, the peace that comes from knowing exactly what to expect.

At precisely 12:30, I unwrapped the sandwich I'd brought from home (turkey on whole grain, lettuce, a thin spread of mustard) and opened my e-reader to continue the novel I'd been working through—a Japanese mystery that had been receiving significant critical attention.

I was three bites into my sandwich when my office door swung open without a knock.

"I've been thinking," Hart announced, dropping into the chair across from my desk. He had a takeout container that smelled strongly of curry.

"A dangerous pastime," I murmured, carefully marking my place in the book.

"About what you said this morning. About not wanting to be swiped on like deli meat." He opened his container, releasing a cloud of aromatic steam. "And you're right. Those apps can be dehumanizing."

"I'm glad we agree." I took another bite of my sandwich, hoping this would be the end of the conversation.

"But," Hart continued, gesturing with his fork, "that doesn't mean you should give up on finding someone. You just need a different approach."

I sighed. "Hart, I appreciate your concern, but—"

"What if I helped you?"

I paused, my sandwich halfway to my mouth. "Helped me what?"

"With dating. Finding someone. I'm good at it—the whole getting-to-know-people thing." He said this without a trace of arrogance, simply stating what he perceived as fact. "I could be like your... dating coach."

"My dating coach," I repeated flatly.

"Yeah! I could help you create a profile that actually represents you, not just the basic stats. And I could help screen potential matches." His eyes were bright with enthusiasm. "It would be fun!"

"For whom, exactly?"

"For both of us! You get to meet interesting people without dealing with all the parts you hate, and I get to..." He trailed off, seemingly at a loss.

"Play matchmaker with my life?"

"Help a friend," he finished, his expression suddenly serious. "Look, Cyril, I know we're not exactly close, but I like you. You're smart and funny in that dry way, and you deserve someone who appreciates that. Someone who gets your whole..." he waved his fork again, "thing."

"My 'thing,'" I echoed.

"You know what I mean."

I did, which was perhaps the most unsettling part of this conversation. Despite our differences—or perhaps because of them—Hart seemed to see me more clearly than most people bothered to.

"I don't need a dating coach," I said finally. "Or a matchmaker. Or whatever it is you're proposing."

Hart leaned forward, his curry momentarily forgotten. "Everyone needs connection, Cyril. Even you, with your perfectly ordered life and your fourteen steps to the bathroom."

I froze. "How did you know about the fourteen steps?"

A deep blush spread across Hart's cheeks, creeping down his neck.

"You mentioned it once. At the holiday party last year.

" His eyes darted away, then back to mine with unexpected intensity.

"You'd had two glasses of wine and were explaining your morning routine to the intern from marketing.

I was standing by the punch bowl, pretending not to listen.

" He smiled, a little too softly. "You count them under your breath sometimes too, when you're stressed. Did you know that?"

I had no memory of this, which was disturbing on multiple levels. "Nevertheless, I'm not interested in your proposal."

Hart sat back, studying me with those perceptive eyes. "Okay. Fair enough." He returned to his curry, and for a moment, I thought I'd won. Then he looked up with a small smile. "But if you change your mind..."

"I won't."

"But if you do."

"I won't," I repeated.

Hart nodded, but the smile didn't leave his face. "Okay, Cyril. Whatever you say."

He finished his lunch in companionable silence, occasionally commenting on office gossip that I pretended not to care about. When he left, my office felt strangely empty, as if he'd taken some of the oxygen with him.

I returned to my sandwich, but it tasted bland now. I checked my watch. 1:07. My lunch break was almost over, and I'd barely made a dent in my meal or my reading.

Another disruption to my carefully ordered day.

I wrapped the remainder of my sandwich and put it away, then turned to the stack of manuscripts on my desk. Work, at least, was predictable. Words on a page, red marks in the margins, the steady progress toward a finished book.

But as I picked up my pen, Hart's words echoed in my mind.

Everyone needs connection, Cyril. Even you.

I pushed the thought away and focused on the manuscript before me. There was comfort in the familiar rhythm of reading, analyzing, noting. This was where I belonged, in this quiet office with my books and my thoughts.

Not on dating apps. Not in trendy cafés with complicated coffee drinks. And certainly not under the guidance of Hart Fielding, human golden retriever and self-appointed dating coach.

My life was ordered exactly as I wanted it. Fourteen steps to the bathroom. Three minutes and forty-five seconds in the shower. Black coffee. Predictable meals. Quiet evenings with good books.

It was enough. It had always been enough.

Hadn't it?