Page 14 of The Cyrano Situation

Chapter Nine - The Jig Is Up

Cyril

T he restaurant Jules had chosen was the kind of place where the lighting made everyone look like they were in a movie.

Not too dim to be pretentious, but soft enough that the harsh edges of reality blurred pleasantly around the corners.

It was perfect, intimate without trying too hard, just like Jules himself.

He sat across from me now, the gentle amber glow catching the gold flecks in his hazel eyes as he studied the menu.

I should have been studying mine too, but I couldn't stop watching his face.

The slight furrow between his brows as he concentrated.

The way he absently touched his bottom lip with his index finger while he read.

"The duck comes highly recommended," Jules said, looking up suddenly and catching me staring.

I dropped my gaze to my untouched menu. "Duck. Right. That sounds good."

"You haven't even looked at the menu, Cyril," he said, his voice warm with amusement.

"I trust your judgment," I replied, which was true but also conveniently masked my inability to focus on anything but him.

Our coffee date had gone surprisingly well.

All the way to the restaurant, I’d been replaying our conversations in my head, analyzing Jules' smiles and the way his hand had briefly touched mine when we reached for the sugar simultaneously.

But that had been coffee—casual, daytime, limited scope for disaster.

This was dinner. The stakes felt astronomically higher.

"So," Jules set his menu down, "tell me more about your work at Pinnacle. Any exciting manuscripts cross your desk lately?"

This was safe territory. I could talk about books without Hart's coaching.

"Actually, yes. There's this fascinating historical fiction piece about a librarian in Alexandria who tries to save scrolls before the library burns.

The author's research is impeccable, and the prose is.

.." I trailed off, suddenly self-conscious about my enthusiasm. "Sorry. I can get carried away."

Jules leaned forward. "Don't apologize. I love your passion. It's refreshing to see someone genuinely excited about literature rather than just viewing it as academic currency."

The waiter appeared at that moment, saving me from having to process the compliment. Jules ordered the duck for both of us, plus a bottle of wine that I couldn't pronounce but nodded at appreciatively like I knew what it was.

As the waiter walked away, Jules continued, "I've been meaning to ask—what drew you to editing specifically? Rather than writing yourself?"

My throat tightened. This question always made me uncomfortable, mainly because the honest answer was fear. Fear of putting my own words out there to be judged. Fear of failing at the thing I loved most.

"I, um—" I fumbled, wishing I had prepared for this question.

Hart would know what to say. Hart always knew.

"Excuse me," I said. "Bathroom. I'll be right back."

Jules nodded, and I escaped to the restroom, phone already in hand. Once safely behind the locked door, I texted Hart.

Me: SOS. Dinner going OK but he asked why editing not writing. What do I say?

I waited, watching the three dots appear and disappear. Come on, Hart.

Hart: Tell him you love being the first to discover new voices. That you find more satisfaction in helping writers realize their vision than creating your own. You're a curator with an eye for potential.

I exhaled with relief. Perfect.

Hart: Also, stop hiding in the bathroom and texting me. You've got this.

Me: How did you know I was in the bathroom??

Hart: Where else would you be having a panic text? Now go get him, tiger.

I slipped my phone into my pocket and returned to the table, where our wine had arrived. Jules was swirling his glass gently, watching the liquid catch the light.

"Sorry about that," I said, sliding back into my seat.

"No problem. We were talking about editing versus writing?"

I took a fortifying sip of wine and channeled Hart's advice.

"I've always loved being the first to discover new voices.

There's something magical about seeing the potential in someone's work and helping them shape it into something even better.

I find more satisfaction in that process than I think I would creating my own stories. "

It wasn't a lie, not really. It just wasn't the whole truth.

Jules' expression brightened. "That's beautiful, Cyril. Like a midwife for literature."

I nearly choked on my wine. "I've never thought of it that way, but yes, exactly."

"Though I suspect you'd be a wonderful writer too," he added, eyes holding mine a moment longer than necessary.

The first course arrived which was some artful arrangement of beets and goat cheese that looked more like installation art than food.

As we ate, Jules told me about a student who'd written a brilliant thesis connecting modern meme culture to ancient Greek satire.

I found myself laughing easily, the wine and Jules' natural warmth loosening the knot of anxiety in my chest.

Until he asked: "So what was your dissertation on? I'm sure it was fascinating."

My dissertation. My unfinished, abandoned dissertation that represented the point when my academic career had crashed and burned. The thing I never talked about. How did he find the exact two things that I tried to avoid talking about at all costs?

"Oh, it was—" I started, then faltered. "Actually, I never finished it."

Jules' expression was neutral, but I imagined judgment behind those intelligent eyes. Why hadn't I prepared for this? Of course a literature professor would ask about my academic background.

"That happens to many people," he said gently. "Academia isn't for everyone."

But his kindness only made me feel worse. I didn't want his pity.

"Excuse me again," I mumbled. "Just need to check something quickly."

I didn't wait for his response before pulling out my phone under the table.

Me: He asked about my dissertation. I told him I didn't finish it. Now he pities me. Help.

I glanced up. Jules was taking a sip of wine, but I caught his eyes flicking toward my phone. Embarrassment flooded through me. Was I being rude? I quickly put my phone face-down on the table.

"Sorry," I said. "Work thing."

"On a Friday night?" Jules raised an eyebrow, but his tone remained light. "Pinnacle must keep you busy."

"Sometimes," I said vaguely, wishing my phone would vibrate with Hart's reply. "Anyway, yes, I started a dissertation on the evolution of unreliable narrators from Poe to postmodernism, but... life happened."

"That sounds fascinating," Jules said, and the genuine interest in his voice made my chest ache. "What aspects of unreliable narration were you focusing on?"

This was both the best and worst question he could have asked. Best because it was something I could talk about passionately for hours. Worst because once I started, my academic inadequacy would become obvious.

I felt my phone vibrate against the table. Thank god.

"Sorry," I said again, reaching for it. "Let me just make sure this isn't urgent."

Hart: Don't get defensive. Own it. "Academic writing wasn't where my passion truly lay. I found I could contribute more meaningfully to literature through editing." Then redirect to asking about HIS research.

I nodded to myself, but when I looked up, Jules was watching me with an unreadable expression.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"Yes, fine," I said, putting my phone away. "Just a... colleague with a question about a manuscript."

"On a Friday night," Jules repeated, the hint of a question in his voice.

"We have a tight deadline," I lied, hating myself for it.

"Anyway, about my dissertation—I realized academic writing wasn't where my passion truly lay.

I found I could contribute more meaningfully to literature through editing.

" The words felt rehearsed even to my own ears.

"What about your research? I'd love to hear more about what you're working on. "

Jules studied me for a moment. "Currently I'm exploring representations of authenticity in digital-age literature. How technology mediates our connections and whether genuine communication is possible when filtered through screens."

The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, filtering our conversation through Hart's coaching, proving Jules' research thesis in real time.

"That's... timely," I managed.

"Indeed." Jules took another sip of wine. "You know, it's interesting how much we rely on our phones now, even during face-to-face interactions."

Was that a pointed comment? I couldn't tell. My anxiety ratcheted up several notches.

Our main courses arrived, saving me from having to respond.

The duck looked and smelled amazing, but my appetite had vanished.

I pushed food around my plate while Jules talked about a conference he'd attended in Boston last month.

I tried to focus, to be present, but my mind kept returning to my phone, wondering if Hart had sent follow-up advice.

During a lull in conversation, I couldn't resist. "Sorry, just need to check on that work thing again," I said, pulling out my phone.

No new messages from Hart. I quickly typed:

Me: He keeps noticing me checking my phone. I think he's annoyed. What do I talk about next?

"Cyril," Jules said, his voice gentle but firm. "Is everything alright?"

"Of course," I said too quickly. "Why?"

"You seem... distracted. If you need to handle something for work, I understand. We can do this another time."

"No!" The word came out louder than I intended. A couple at a nearby table glanced over. "No," I repeated more quietly. "I'm having a great time. I'm sorry if it seems otherwise."

Jules set down his fork. "Can I ask you something directly?"

My stomach dropped. "Sure."

"Who are you texting?"

The question hung in the air between us. My phone chose that moment to vibrate with Hart's reply. I didn't dare look at it.

"Just a coworker," I said, which wasn't a lie.

"The same one who helped you prepare for our coffee date?" Jules asked, his expression unreadable.

I froze. "What?"

"You mentioned someone named Hart had suggested the café we met at." Jules' voice was calm, but his eyes were intent on mine. "Are you texting him right now? For... advice about our date?"

The blood drained from my face. This was it. Game over. I'd been caught.

"I—" My voice failed me. What would Hart say? But that was exactly the problem, wasn't it? I couldn't keep relying on Hart's words. Jules was looking at me, waiting for my words.

I took a deep breath and decided to try something radical: the truth.

"Yes," I admitted, my voice barely audible over the ambient restaurant noise. "I'm texting Hart."

Jules nodded slowly. "Why?"

I stared down at my half-eaten duck. "Because I'm terrified of saying the wrong thing and ruining this. Because you're brilliant and interesting and way out of my league. Because without Hart's coaching, I'm just... me. And that doesn't feel like enough."

The silence that followed felt eternal. I couldn't bring myself to look at Jules' face. This was it—the moment he'd realize what a fraud I was and walk out.

"Cyril," he finally said, "look at me."

Reluctantly, I raised my eyes to meet his.

"Do you think I agreed to go out with a ghostwriter? That I've been enjoying conversations with Hart all this time?"

"No, but—"

"No buts. Every message we've exchanged, every conversation we've had—even if Hart suggested certain topics or phrases—it was still you. Your knowledge, your passion, your way of seeing the world." Jules leaned forward. "I'm interested in you , Cyril. Not some curated version of you."

"But I'm a mess," I said before I could stop myself. "I overthink everything. I get paralyzed by social anxiety. I abandoned my dissertation because I couldn't handle the pressure. I'm not... smooth or confident or any of the things someone like you deserves."

Jules smiled, and it was so genuine it made my chest ache.

"And you think I am? Cyril, I spend most of my days talking to books because they're safer than people.

I rehearse casual conversations in my head before department meetings.

I once hid in a supply closet for twenty minutes to avoid small talk with the dean. "

I blinked at him. "But you seem so... composed."

"Years of practice. And medication." He shrugged. "My point is, we're all performing to some degree. The difference is, I'd like to get to know the real you, not the performance."

My phone vibrated again. We both looked at it.

"Go ahead," Jules said. "See what words of wisdom Hart has for you now."

Hesitantly, I checked the message.

Hart: Tell him the truth. If he's worth it, he'll understand. If not, at least you'll know. Also, stop texting me and TALK TO THE MAN SITTING ACROSS FROM YOU.

I couldn't help the small laugh that escaped me. I turned the phone around so Jules could see the screen.

"Sound advice," Jules said, smiling. "Hart seems like a good friend."

"He is," I admitted. "He's been trying to get me out of my shell for ages. But I think I've been using him as a crutch."

"We all need support sometimes," Jules said. "Though perhaps not mid-date texting support."

Heat rose to my face. "I'm really sorry about that. It was rude and dishonest and—"

"And human," Jules finished for me. "Cyril, I'm not angry.

If anything, I'm flattered that you care so much about making a good impression.

" He reached across the table and, after a moment's hesitation, placed his hand over mine.

"But I'd rather have an imperfect, authentic conversation with you than a perfect, scripted one. "

His hand was warm against mine, and I found myself turning my palm upward so our fingers could intertwine. It felt more intimate than anything we'd done so far.

"I can't promise I won't be awkward," I said.

"I'm counting on it," Jules replied with a grin. "Awkward is my comfort zone."

"In that case..." I took a deep breath, turned my phone face-down, and pushed it to the edge of the table. "Tell me more about this student's meme thesis. It sounds genuinely fascinating."

Jules' face lit up, and as he launched into an explanation of classical satire structures in modern internet humor, I felt something inside me relax.

Not completely—my anxiety wasn't going to vanish in one evening—but enough to be present in this moment, with this man who somehow saw through my carefully constructed facade and was still sitting across from me, his hand in mine.

Maybe being just me wasn't so terrifying after all.