Page 15 of The Cyrano Situation

Chapter Ten - Best in Show

Hart

I 've always been an excellent actor. This is not self-aggrandizement, just a statement of fact.

It's a skill I've honed through years of pretending to be fascinated by authors explaining the minute details of nineteenth-century wallpaper patterns, or appearing deeply moved by yet another mediocre dissertation on the symbolism of doorways in Gothic literature that I had to figure out how to make the public interested in.

The academy rewards performance almost as much as it does actual scholarship.

So, when Cyril burst into my office on a Tuesday afternoon, practically vibrating with excitement, I did what I do best. I set aside the stats from the Jenkins campaign, leaned back in my chair, and arranged my features into a mask of friendly interest.

"Third date tonight," he announced, dropping into the chair across from my desk. "Ethiopian place on Elmwood."

"Excellent choice," I said, as though my heart wasn't performing an elaborate gymnastic routine in my chest. "Authentic cuisine, interesting cultural experience. Shows you're adventurous without being pretentious."

Cyril nodded eagerly. "That's what I thought. Jules suggested it, actually. Said something about wanting to try food you eat with your hands."

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. "Smart. Sensual eating experience. Sharing food from the same plate creates intimacy."

"That's what I was hoping." He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that was frustratingly endearing. "And, you know, third date."

"Traditionally when things might progress," I supplied, my voice impressively steady.

"Exactly." He looked at me with a mixture of hope and anxiety that made me want to simultaneously shake him and hold him. "Any advice?"

I considered this, mentally cataloging what I knew about Jules from our limited interactions and from everything Cyril had shared.

"Be attentive. Ask questions about the food, about the experience.

Make it clear you're interested in their perspective.

And don't rush. Let the evening unfold naturally. "

"Right. Naturally." He nodded seriously, as though I'd imparted profound wisdom instead of dating platitudes.

"And Cyril?" I added, unable to help myself. "Wear the blue shirt. The one with the subtle pattern. It brings out your eyes."

His face lit up. "You're the best, Hart. Seriously. I don't know what I'd do without you."

I smiled tightly giving him the now standard response to the now standard compliment. "That's what friends are for."

After he left, I sat motionless for several minutes, staring at the wall where a framed reproduction of a Hogarth print hung slightly askew. I should straighten it, I thought distantly. I should straighten a lot of things.

Instead, I turned back to my work with a sigh.

The texting ritual began that night around eleven. By then, I'd made it through half a bottle of moderately priced Cabernet and was sprawled on my sofa, pretending to watch a documentary about coral reefs while actually contemplating the slow death of my dignity.

My phone buzzed.

Cyril: SOS. Jules just texted something about Austen and I don't know how to respond without sounding like an idiot.

I sat up, setting my wine glass on the coffee table.

Hart: What exactly did he say?

Cyril: "Been thinking about our conversation at dinner. Your take on Austen's social commentary made me see her work in a new light. That's rare for me with authors I've studied so extensively."

I stared at the message, feeling a peculiar mixture of pride and despair. The conversation Cyril had referenced had been all Cyril's thoughts on Austen and, honestly, I'd kind of tuned out about halfway through. I racked my brain for something he'd told me.

Hart: Tell him: "I've always found her precision with language fascinating—how she can deliver such sharp social critique with such delicate phrasing. Your perspective on her work makes me want to revisit her novels with fresh eyes."

I watched the typing indicator pulse for a moment.

Cyril: That's perfect. But maybe too perfect? I don't want to sound like I'm trying too hard.

I sighed, taking another sip of wine. Those were his words.

Hart: Then add something more personal at the end. Something like: "Your perspective makes me braver about expressing my own literary opinions. I usually keep those thoughts to myself."

Cyril: YES. That's exactly right. You're a genius.

Hart: I know. Now go get 'em, tiger.

I set my phone down, staring at the muted television where vibrant coral formations swayed in ocean currents.

Somewhere across town, Jules was reading my words and attributing them to Cyril.

Somewhere across town, the person I couldn't stop thinking about was falling for someone else, aided and abetted by my own literary ventriloquism.

I picked up my wine glass again, draining it in one long swallow.

I was literally ghost-writing my own heartbreak, crafting the perfect romantic messages for someone else to send to the person I wanted.

If it weren't happening to me, I'd find it darkly amusing, perhaps even worthy of a contemporary tragicomedy.

But it was happening to me, and there was nothing remotely amusing about the hollow feeling expanding in my chest.

My phone buzzed again.

Cyril: He responded! "I'd love to hear more of your thoughts sometime. Maybe we could have a private book club of sorts."

I closed my eyes briefly, then typed:

Hart: "I'd like nothing better. Your apartment or mine?"

Cyril: Is that too forward?

Hart: It's the third date, Cyril. A little forward is appropriate.

Cyril: You're right. Sending now.

I turned my phone face-down on the coffee table and reached for the wine bottle. This was becoming pathological, this need to orchestrate Cyril's romantic success even as it drove daggers into my own heart. And yet I couldn't seem to stop myself.

Hart Fielding, expert in marketing literature and emotional self-sabotage. Perhaps I should add it to my CV.

"You look terrible," Priya announced the next morning, appearing in my office doorway with two coffee cups. She kicked the door closed behind her and set one cup on my desk. "Drink this. It's a quadruple shot."

"Your concern is touching," I muttered, but reached gratefully for the coffee.

She settled into the chair across from me, studying me with the merciless scrutiny that made her both an excellent friend and a formidable academic. "So, how's operation 'Help My Crush Woo Someone Else' going? Still firmly in self-destruction mode, I see."

I glared at her over the rim of my cup. "I don't recall asking for your psychological assessment."

"And yet here I am, providing it free of charge." She smiled sardonically, crossed her legs, the bright green of her eyes contrasting sharply with her warm brown skin. "You know you're being ridiculous, right? Just tell him how you feel."

"And say what, exactly?" I set the cup down harder than intended. "'Sorry to interrupt your blossoming romance, but I've developed inconvenient feelings for you that I'd like you to acknowledge before rejecting them'?"

"Yes, actually. That would be significantly more dignified than what you're currently doing."

I leaned back in my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose. "There's nothing dignified about any of this, Priya. Besides, he's happy. Jules is brilliant and attractive and they have actual chemistry. Who am I to interfere with that?"

"Who are you?" She raised her eyebrows. "You're Hart Fielding, the person who's been halfway in love with Cyril since he joined the department.

The person who knows more about his interests and passions than anyone else.

The person who apparently spends his evenings crafting romantic text messages for him to send to someone else. "

I flinched. "He told you about that?"

"He didn't have to. He quoted one of your messages to me verbatim, and unless he's suddenly developed your particular brand of verbose eloquence, those were your words coming out of his mouth."

I sighed, deflating slightly. "It's not like it matters. He sees me as a friend, a mentor. Nothing more."

"Are you sure about that? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like he values your opinion above anyone else's. He comes to you for advice on everything from his research to his love life. That's not nothing, Hart."

"It's not enough, either." I gestured vaguely. "Besides, have you seen him with Jules? They're perfect together. Both brilliant, both gorgeous, both with promising literary careers. They make sense."

"And you and Cyril don't?" She leaned forward, her expression softening. "Hart, you're allowed to want things for yourself. You're allowed to pursue your own happiness."

"My happiness is not dependent on Cyril returning my feelings," I said, with as much bravado as I could muster.

"No, but your current misery certainly is." She took a sip of her coffee, eyeing me over the rim. "What's really going on here? This isn't like you, this... martyrdom."

I was silent for a long moment, tracing the edge of my desk with one finger. "Do you remember that movie 'Call Me By Your Name' that we went to as a team building exercise?"

She nodded slowly. "The one where Cyril sat next to you and kept whispering commentary in your ear?"

"Yes. There's a line in it, where Elio's father tells him that most people don't find the kind of connection they had, that most people settle for something less." I met her gaze. "I think Cyril could have that… that rare, transformative connection, with Jules. And I think he deserves it."

"And you don't?"

I smiled thinly. "I'm thirty-eight years old, Priya. I've had relationships. Some good, some disastrous. But I've never felt about anyone the way I feel about him, and he doesn't feel the same way. So yes, I'm helping him pursue someone else, because his happiness matters to me."

"Even at the expense of your own?"

"Especially at the expense of my own." I picked up my coffee again. "Now, can we please discuss something else? That new indie author you wanted were talking about signing, perhaps? Or the latest departmental drama? Anything but my pathetic love life."

She studied me for a moment longer, then sighed. "Fine. But this conversation isn't over. I'm just giving you a temporary reprieve."

"Your generosity knows no bounds," I said dryly.

She smiled, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Oh, you have no idea."

The reprieve lasted exactly three days, until Cyril appeared in my doorway late Friday afternoon, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

"Jules invited me over for dinner tomorrow," he announced without preamble. "At his apartment."

I carefully marked my place in the manuscript I was reviewing and looked up. "That sounds promising."

"It is. It's just—" He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I'd come to recognize as a sign of anxiety. "I don't want to mess this up. It feels important, you know? Like a turning point."

"I understand." I gestured to the chair across from me. "Have a seat. Tell me what you're thinking."

He dropped into the chair, his long legs sprawling in that careless way that always made my chest tighten. "Should I bring something? Wine seems obvious, but is it too obvious? And what about after dinner? If he invites me to stay, should I? Is that moving too fast?"

I took a deep breath, mentally donning my supportive friend armor.

"Flowers are always appreciated. Nothing too extravagant—perhaps a small bouquet of something seasonal.

And yes to wine, but also consider bringing dessert.

Something you can share. As for staying over.

.." I paused, choosing my words carefully.

"That's entirely up to you and Jules. There's no right timeline, only what feels comfortable for both of you. "

He nodded, absorbing this. "Dessert is good. Jules mentioned liking tiramisu once."

"Perfect." I forced a smile. "Tiramisu it is."

"And you think flowers, too? Not overkill?"

"Not at all. Flowers show thoughtfulness. They say you were thinking about the evening, about making it special."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "What kind, though? I don't know anything about flower meanings or whatever."

"Nothing too romantic yet. No red roses." I thought for a moment. "Perhaps dahlias? They're in season, and they symbolize dignity and elegance. Or sunflowers. They're simple, cheerful, unpretentious."

"Sunflowers," he decided. "Jules has this bright yellow mug he always uses. I bet he'd like sunflowers."

I nodded, ignoring the pang in my chest. Of course he'd noticed such a detail. Of course he'd make the connection. "Sunflowers it is, then."

"Thanks, Hart." His smile was warm, genuine. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Probably muddle through like the rest of us," I said lightly. "You give me too much credit."

"No, I don't think I do." His expression grew serious. "You always know exactly what to say, exactly how to handle things. It's like you have this perfect understanding of what people want, what they need."

I looked away, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. "Not always," I said quietly.

"Well, you've been right about everything with Jules so far." He stood, stretching slightly. "I should let you get back to work. I just wanted to check in about tomorrow."

"Of course. Any time." I managed another smile. "Let me know how it goes."

"I will." He paused at the door. "You're the best, Hart. Seriously."

After he left, I sat motionless, staring at the empty doorway. The best. At what, exactly? At orchestrating my own emotional torment? At helping someone I cared about pursue someone else? At maintaining a facade of friendly detachment while my insides twisted themselves into knots?

Yes, I supposed I was the best at all of those things. Hart Fielding, best in show.