Page 12 of The Cyrano Situation

Chapter Eight - The Cyrano Test

Hart

I 'd never considered myself a connoisseur of bad decisions.

But this particular decision felt like I had become a sommelier of self-sabotage, if you will.

And today's selection was particularly exquisite—a robust blend of professional meddling and emotional masochism with undertones of pathetic longing and notes of inevitable heartbreak.

I adjusted my position behind the potted fern that was doing an inadequate job of concealing me at The Caffeine Chronicles, the unnecessarily hip coffee shop three blocks from Pinnacle's offices.

The barista—whose name tag reads "Saffron" and who is wearing what appears to be a hand-knitted beanie despite it being seventy-five degrees outside—eyes me suspiciously.

I can't blame her. I've been nursing the same oat milk latte for forty-five minutes while hunched over my phone like I'm plotting a heist.

Which, in a way, I am. A heist of hearts. Just not my own.

"Surveillance position secured," I tell Cyril, then immediately regretted the phrasing. "I mean, I'm here. Corner table by the Modernist Literature section. How fitting."

My phone buzzed almost instantly.

Cyril: I'm having second thoughts. What if I bore him? What if I spill something? What if I accidentally quote Wordsworth when I meant Coleridge?

I smiled despite myself. Only Cyril would consider misattributing a Romantic poet to be the height of social catastrophe.

Me: Breathe. You know more about literature than anyone I've ever met. Just be yourself. Minus the cardigan collection references.

Cyril: I'll have you know my cardigan collection is fascinating. I have one that belonged to an Oxford don who allegedly once lent a pencil to T.S. Eliot.

Me: Save that riveting anecdote for the third date. Where are you?

Cyril: Pacing outside. I can see you through the window. Stop smirking.

I looked up and there he was, a nervous silhouette on the sidewalk.

Cyril Nolan, Head Editor and literary savant, thankfully not wearing his "good" cardigan.

His hair looked like he had been running his fingers through it, releasing a few of his tightly controlled curls, making him look all academically delicious. My chest tightened.

Me: You look great. Now get in here before Jules shows up and thinks he's been stood up.

Cyril entered with that slightly hunched posture that made him appear shorter than his six feet two inches.

I'd spent months trying to correct that, ambushing him in the office hallway with "shoulders back!

" until he'd started taking alternate routes to the break room to avoid me.

Today, though, as he approached the counter to order, I noticed he was making a conscious effort to stand straight. Progress.

He ordered something complicated that required the barista to use three different syrups, then scanned the room.

When our eyes met, I gave him a thumbs up that I hoped conveyed "you've got this" rather than "I'm slowly dying inside.

" He nodded and chose a table on the other side of the fern from me, two table over—perfect for my observation and whispering sweet nothing purposes, terrible for my emotional well-being.

Cyril: Is this table okay? Too central? Not central enough? Should I move to one by the window?

Me: It's perfect. Stop overthinking. Remember what we practiced: open body language, occasional eye contact, thoughtful questions.

Cyril: And under no circumstances should I mention my thesis on the use of parenthetical asides in Nabokov.

Me: Correct. Save that for when you want him to break up with you.

Cyril: Oh God, he just texted. He's two minutes away. Hart, I can't do this.

Me: Yes, you can. You're brilliant, you're charming when you forget to be nervous, and you look hot in those jeans.

I paused after sending that last message, my thumbs hovering over the screen. Had that been too much? But before I could overthink it, I saw Cyril's face flush slightly as he read my text. He glanced up at me with a small, surprised smile that did uncomfortable things to my internal organs.

Cyril: Thank you. That actually helps.

The bell above the door chimed, and there he was.

Jules Archer, PhD, looking like he stepped out of a J.Crew catalog for attractive academics.

Olive corduroy jacket with elbow patches (of course), dark-rimmed glasses, and a messenger bag that probably contains dog-eared copies of obscure poetry collections he's planning to quote at the exact right moment.

His dark curls with just a touch of silver that caught the afternoon light streaming through the windows.

When he smiled at the barista it looked as if the simple act of ordering coffee is a profound joy.

God, what a beautiful, pretentious asshole.

No, that's unfair. Jules isn't pretentious. He's genuinely passionate about literature, which is even worse. If he were a fake, I could hate him properly.

But I did hate that Cyril's face lit up when he saw him.

I hated that Jules spotted Cyril and smiled like he'd just found a first edition Fitzgerald in a garage sale.

I hated that they were so obviously, perfectly matched—two literature nerds about to fall into a conversation that would exclude 99% of the population, including me.

When Jules made it to the table, Cyril stood up too quickly, nearly knocking over his elaborate coffee concoction. Jules steadied the mug with an easy grace that made me want to throw something.

"Professor Archer," Cyril said, his voice carrying just enough for me to hear.

"Please, Jules," the professor corrected, sliding into the seat across from him. "Save the 'professor' for lecture halls and particularly kinky scenarios."

I watched Cyril turn the color of a pomegranate as he sat. My phone buzzed.

Cyril: He just made a sex joke. WHAT DO I DO?

Me: Laugh. Relax. He's flirting with you. Flirt back.

An uncomfortable laugh escaped Cyril's throat as another text came through. Damn! He was really good at this texting without looking!

Cyril: HOW?

I sighed, taking a long sip of my coffee.

Me: Compliment something specific about him. His book, his research, NOT his elbow patches.

I watched as Cyril visibly composed himself, straightening his shoulders again.

"I really enjoyed your analysis of queer subtext in modernist literature," he said to Jules. "Particularly your chapter on Forster's withheld works. It changed how I approach editing contemporary queer fiction."

Jules leaned forward, genuinely interested. "Really? I'd love to hear more about that."

And they were off. From my surveillance post, I watched as Cyril's initial nervousness melted away, replaced by the animated enthusiasm he usually reserved for debates about Oxford commas or the merits of footnotes versus endnotes.

His hands moved expressively as he talked, occasionally pushing back that stubborn curl that always fell across his forehead.

Jules watched him with growing fascination, clearly taken by Cyril's passion.

My phone remained silent for nearly twenty minutes. Good. That meant things were going well. I should have been pleased with myself. After all, wasn't this exactly what I'd signed up for? Operation Get Cyril A Boyfriend was proceeding according to plan.

So why did I feel like I was swallowing glass?

I ordered another coffee, this time with a shot of espresso, because apparently, I wanted to be both miserable AND jittery.

Finally, my phone buzzed again.

Cyril: He just touched my hand. I can't breathe.

Me: Breathe. Touch him back. Not weirdly. Just... reciprocate.

I watched as Cyril deliberately set his hand on the table closer to Jules. The professor noticed, smiled, and during his next point about whatever literary minutiae had them both enraptured, let his fingers brush against Cyril's again. This time, Cyril didn't freeze. Progress.

Meanwhile, I was gripping my coffee mug so hard I was surprised it didn't shatter.

The conversation flowed from Virginia Woolf to contemporary queer literature.

I caught fragments—mentions of Ocean Vuong, Carmen Maria Machado, names I recognized only because Cyril had enthusiastically pushed their books into my hands over the past year, insisting I'd "connect with them on a spiritual level.

" I'd read them all, of course. I always read what Cyril recommended, even though I never had anything intelligent to add to his analyses beyond "I liked it" or "the main character was a jerk. "

That was the thing about Cyril. He lived and breathed literature in a way I never could, despite working in publishing. Words were tools for me—useful for crafting press releases and convincing people to buy books. For Cyril, words were oxygen.

"Morrison captures that sense of yearning so perfectly," I heard Cyril say, his voice carrying in a moment of café quiet. "That feeling of wanting something so desperately while simultaneously pushing it away because you're afraid it might actually happen."

Jules nodded eagerly. "Yes, exactly! The tension between desire and fear… it's what makes her work so universally resonant."

I slumped lower in my seat. Toni Morrison.

I'd read "Beloved" in college and found it beautiful but challenging.

I remembered mentioning this to Cyril once, and he'd spent forty-five minutes explaining the historical and cultural contexts I'd missed, his eyes bright with enthusiasm.

I'd been captivated. Not by Morrison, if I'm being honest, but by him.

I saw Cyril excuse himself and push back from the table, heading toward the restrooms. A moment later, my phone buzzed.

Cyril: We're discussing Morrison and I remembered that thing you said about Song of Solomon being "emotional hurricane in book form." Can I quote you?

I stared at the text. I'd never said that. I'd never even read Song of Solomon. But it sounded like something a person with actual literary insight might say.