Page 13 of The Cyrano Situation

Me: Go for it. But maybe don't mention it came from me.

Cyril: Ok. I think it's going well. Don't you?

I swallowed a sip of my now cold coffee before I answered hating the cold ball that suddenly formed in my chest.

Me: Yeah. Seems like you' re doing great, Cy.

Cyril: Thanks! I thought so. Better get back.

I watched as Cyril returned to the table took his seat and picked up the conversation as if he'd never left, smooth as could be, repeating my fabricated quote. Jules looked impressed, nodding vigorously.

"That's remarkably apt," the professor said. "The way Morrison constructs emotional landscapes that envelop the reader—'hurricane' is precisely right."

Cyril beamed, and I felt like the world's biggest fraud. A fraud who was apparently helping Cyril impress his date with my fake deep thoughts about books I hadn't read.

Their coffees were long finished, but neither seemed inclined to leave. Jules got up to order them both a second round. While he was at the counter, Cyril's fingers flew across his phone.

Cyril: This is going really well! He knows EVERYTHING about modernist literature. We've been discussing parallels between Woolf and Morrison for 20 minutes!

Me: Sounds riveting.

Cyril: Sorry, I know that's not your thing. But Hart, he's so easy to talk to. You were right about being myself.

Me: Told you. You don't need me.

I meant it to sound supportive, but as I sent it, I realized how terrifyingly true it was. He didn't need me. Not for this. Not for anything, really.

Cyril had always needed my help with confidence, with communication, with navigating social situations.

It was our dynamic. I was the people person; he was the book person.

I coached him through awkward office parties and helped him phrase emails to authors.

He explained literary references and recommended books that made me feel things I didn't know books could make me feel.

But watching him with Jules, I realized something that felt like a punch to the gut. Cyril didn't lack social skills. He just needed the right audience. Someone who spoke his language, who lit up at the same things that excited him.

And that someone wasn't me.

Jules returned with their coffees and what appeared to be a slice of cake to share.

As they both reached for forks, their hands touched again.

This time, neither pulled away. I watched as Jules slowly, deliberately intertwined his fingers with Cyril's, and Cyril—my nervous, overthinking, adorkable Cyril—smiled with a confidence I rarely saw outside of editorial meetings.

My phone remained silent. They didn't need a chaperone anymore.

I should leave. This was veering from supportive friend territory into creepy stalker territory. But my legs refused to cooperate, keeping me anchored to my chair as I watched what felt like my own personal tragedy unfold in real time.

The conversation continued, punctuated by laughter and lingering eye contact. Jules said something that made Cyril throw his head back in genuine mirth, exposing the pale column of his throat. I'd made Cyril laugh a thousand times, but never like that—never with that unguarded joy.

At some point, Jules reached across the table and gently brushed that stubborn curl from Cyril's forehead.

It was such an intimate gesture, so casually done, that I had to look away.

When I looked back, Cyril was staring at Jules with an expression I'd never seen before—a mixture of wonder and desire that made my coffee curdle in my stomach.

My phone buzzed.

Cyril: He asked if I want to continue this over dinner. Tonight. What do I say?

The correct answer was obvious. Say yes. The date was going well. Jules was clearly interested. Cyril was clearly interested. This was the successful outcome we'd planned for.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard as something dark and selfish rose in me. I could sabotage this. I could tell him to play it cool, to not seem too eager. I could invent some work emergency that required his immediate attention.

But I couldn't do that to him. Not when he was looking at Jules like he'd discovered a new constellation.

Me: Say yes. You deserve this.

I watched as Cyril read my message, then looked up at Jules with that same wonder in his eyes.

"Yes," he said, loudly enough that I could hear. "I'd like that very much."

Jules's smile was triumphant, and why wouldn't it be? He'd just won the affection of the most brilliant, kind, frustratingly endearing man in the city.

They stood up together, gathering their things. Jules helped Cyril into his coat—his good coat, the charcoal wool one I'd helped him pick out last winter. Their bodies moved in sync already, an easy choreography of two people gravitating toward each other.

As they headed for the door, Cyril glanced back toward my corner. I ducked behind my coffee mug like the coward I am, but not before our eyes met briefly. He gave me a small, grateful smile and a nearly imperceptible nod.

And then they were gone, walking close together down the sidewalk, occasionally bumping shoulders in a way that looked both accidental and entirely deliberate.

I sat there alone, surrounded by the detritus of my surveillance operation—an empty coffee cups, a half-eaten muffin I didn't remember ordering, and the crushing weight of a realization I could no longer avoid.

I was in love with Cyril Nolan.

I, Hart Fielding, publicity director who wore self-proclaimed emotional Teflon like a badge of honor, had fallen hopelessly, catastrophically in love with my colleague. My friend. The man I'd just helped connect with someone else.

The irony wasn't lost on me. I spent my career crafting narratives, controlling public perception, manufacturing connections between people and products. And here I was, having failed to recognize the most important narrative of my own life until it was walking out the door with someone else.

My phone buzzed one last time.

Cyril: Thank you for everything. I couldn't have done this without you.

I stared at those words until they blurred, then typed the biggest lie of my career.

Me: Happy to help. That's what friends are for.

Friends. Right. Because friends sit in coffee shops watching their friend fall for someone else while their heart splinters into a thousand jagged pieces. Friends help orchestrate their own personal nightmare because they're too cowardly to admit how they feel.

I finally stood up, legs stiff from sitting too long, and gathered my things. Saffron gave me a sympathetic look as I passed the counter. Either I looked as devastated as I felt, or she'd witnessed enough coffee shop heartbreaks to recognize the signs.

Outside, the early evening air was sharp with approaching autumn. I turned in the opposite direction from where Cyril and Jules had gone, not trusting myself not to follow at a pathetic distance.

The worst part wasn't that I'd lost something I never had. The worst part was realizing that what Cyril had said about Morrison, about yearning for something while simultaneously pushing it away, described exactly what I'd been doing with him for months. Years, maybe.

Afraid to want him. Afraid to lose him. And now, having accomplished both at once.

I walked home alone through streets full of people, mentally drafting and redrafting the story of how Hart Fielding, master communicator, had failed to communicate the only thing that mattered.