Page 16 of The Cyrano Situation

Chapter Eleven - Sex Ed

Hart

W eeks turned into a month. It's remarkable how routine could both sustain and erode you simultaneously. I had perfected the art of separating work-Hart and friend/dating coach Hart.

The former functions with clinical precision, creating campaigns, leading team meetings, cajoling melting down authors. The latter retreats into a private world of quiet resignation, where I've learned to breathe through the moments when Cyril mentions Jules.

And he mentions Jules often.

I've developed strategies. When Cyril appears in my doorway with that particular look—the one that means he wants to talk about his boyfriend—I mentally recite statistical analyses of marketing trends or rehearse taglines for upcoming books.

It creates just enough distance to maintain my professional demeanor while the rest of me crumbles silently.

Today at lunch, I'm dissecting a tuna sandwich at my desk when Cyril finds me. His face is bright with something new, and I brace myself.

"Jules wants me to meet his parents," he announces, dropping into the chair across from me.

I set down my sandwich, carefully arranging my features into what I hope resembles supportive interest. "That's significant."

"Is it?" His eyes widen. "I mean, we've only been dating for about five weeks. Is that too soon?"

I take a sip of water, buying time. "There's no universal timeline for these things. Some families are more open to early introductions than others."

"His parents are visiting from Connecticut this weekend. They're staying at some fancy hotel downtown." Cyril fidgets with a napkin. "He says they're eager to meet me."

"Then they've heard about you," I observe, ignoring the twist in my stomach.

"Yeah, he says he's told them... quite a bit." A flush creeps up his neck. "We had this conversation last night about what we are to each other, and, well, we decided we're boyfriends. Officially."

The word hangs between us. Boyfriends. Official.

"That's wonderful," I say, and somehow my voice remains steady. "You seem happy."

"I am." He looks down, smiling. "It's strange how quickly it's happened. When you know, you know—right?"

When you know, you know. The cruelest platitude, because I do know. I've known since that rainy afternoon when he spilled coffee on my desk and apologized with such earnest dismay that something in me shifted permanently.

"So I've heard," I reply.

Cyril leans forward. "Jules said something last night that I can't stop thinking about. He said meeting me was like finding a book he didn't know he was looking for. One that makes him reconsider all the other books he'd read before."

Of course Jules would have the perfect literary metaphor at the ready. I imagine him delivering it, perhaps over wine, in that soft French accent, while Cyril looked at him with the expression I've memorized but never had directed at me.

"He has a way with words," I manage.

"He does." Cyril's smile fades slightly, replaced by a hesitant look. "Hart, can I ask you something... personal?"

Warning bells sound in my mind. "Of course."

He glances around the office like another coworker might jump out from behind the Ficus in the corner, then lowers his voice. "It's about sex."

The warning bells become sirens. "Oh?"

"Jules and I haven't yet... I mean, we've done some things, but not everything." His cheeks are flaming now. "And I think it might happen soon, and I'm nervous because it's been a while for me, and never with someone I cared about this much, and Jules is so experienced, and—"

"Cyril," I interrupt, because I need him to stop talking before I physically break apart. "Take a breath."

He inhales deeply, then exhales. "Sorry. I just—I trust your advice. And you're the only gay friend I can ask about this."

Gay friend. The designation both warms and wounds me.

"What specifically are you concerned about?" I ask, slipping into professor mode because it's the only way I can survive this conversation.

"Everything?" He laughs nervously. "But mostly... how do I know if I'm doing it right? What if I'm terrible and he's just too nice to say anything?"

I take another sip of water, wishing desperately it were something stronger. "Communication is key. Ask what he likes. Tell him what you like. And remember that awkwardness is part of the process, especially with someone new."

"But what if—"

"Cyril," I say gently, "sex isn't a performance to be graded. It's an extension of your connection with each other. Focus on that, not on some arbitrary standard of technique."

He nods slowly. "That... actually helps."

"Good." I force a smile. "Anything else?"

The next fifteen minutes are excruciating.

I provide clinical, thoughtful advice about preparation, protection, and patience while a part of me dies with each question.

I discuss positions and preferences with the detached tone of a medical professional, all while imagining Cyril with Jules in ways that tear at my insides.

When he finally thanks me and leaves for his afternoon editing meeting, I remain seated, staring at my half-eaten sandwich until Priya texts me to remind me about the marketing meeting scheduled in fifteen minutes.

Only then do I dispose of my lunch, press my forehead against the cool wood of my desk and allow myself exactly sixty seconds of private agony before returning to work-Hart.

Sixty seconds isn't nearly enough.

Friday night finds me in my office well past nine, reviewing book tour proposals that don't require immediate attention. The office is dead quiet, everyone else having left hours ago. I should go home, but home means silence and thoughts, and tonight particularly, I can't bear either.

Because tonight, according to the nervous text Cyril sent earlier, he's having dinner at Jules' apartment. "He's cooking for me," the message read. "Says he has something special planned."

I didn't need a psychology degree to interpret that.

My phone buzzes on my desk. I glance at it, knowing I shouldn't look, knowing exactly what it will be.

Cyril: At Jules' place. Everything's perfect. I think it's happening tonight.

I stare at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. What would a good friend say? What would someone who wasn't silently in love with him say?

Me: Just be yourself. That's more than enough.

After sending it, I add:

Me: And remember what we talked about. Communication.

Cyril: Thanks, Hart. You're the best.

I set the phone down and close my eyes. The best. God! I'm getting sick of that phrase. The best at what? The best friend who gives sex advice to the man he loves about another man? The best at pretending this isn't killing me by degrees? The best at lying to said best friend?

I can't stay in this office any longer.

Outside, the early autumn air has a crisp edge that normally I'd find invigorating. Now, it just feels like another reminder of change, of seasons shifting while I remain frozen in place. I walk without direction, away from campus, away from my apartment, just away.

The streets downtown are alive with Friday night energy. Couples and groups are moving between restaurants and bars, laughing, touching, living their uncomplicated lives. I envy their simple joy, their ability to exist in the moment without the constant undercurrent of longing.

I find myself approaching the arts district near the university where Jules teaches. I should turn around. Nothing good can come from being in this neighborhood tonight. Yet I continue walking, drawn by some masochistic impulse I can't resist.

A wine bar catches my eye, the warm lighting spilling onto the sidewalk, the soft murmur of conversation audible from outside. I could go in, have a glass of something robust and distracting. Pretend to be someone without a hollow ache in his chest.

As I approach the entrance, movement across the street catches my attention.

Two figures emerge from a narrow alleyway between buildings.

Even in the dim evening light, I recognize Cyril immediately—his lanky frame, the way he gestures when he speaks.

Beside him walks a slightly shorter man with dark, wavy hair and glasses.

Jules.

I should leave. I should turn and walk away quickly before they see me. Instead, I step back into the shadow of a nearby doorway, unable to tear my eyes away from them.

They're laughing about something, shoulders brushing as they walk, hands intertwined. Jules says something I can't hear, and Cyril throws his head back in genuine delight. I've never made him laugh like that.

They pause beneath a streetlight. Jules reaches up to touch Cyril's face, a tender gesture that makes my chest constrict. Then, with the casual confidence of someone who knows their touch is welcome, he pulls Cyril down into a kiss.

It's not a brief kiss. It's not a public-appropriate peck. It's the kind of kiss that transforms the participants into the only two people in the universe. Cyril's hands move to Jules' waist, drawing him closer. Jules' fingers thread through Cyril's hair.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. I was transfixed by this moment that confirmed everything I had feared and denied. The physical embodiment of what I had lost without ever having.

When they finally separated, they remained close, foreheads touching, sharing words meant only for each other. Jules took Cyril's hand, and they continued down the street, walking toward what I assumed was Jules' apartment and the evening they had planned.

I had imagined heartbreak before. I had pictured dramatic confrontations, tearful declarations, the cinematic version of love lost. But this… this quiet devastation, this muted collapse of hope—this was true heartbreak.

No soundtrack, no audience, just me standing alone in the dark while the person I love walks away with someone else.

I waited until they were out of sight before I stepped back onto the sidewalk. The wine bar no longer appealed to me. Nothing did.

I turned and began the long walk back to my apartment, each step an exercise in continuing to exist when part of me has shattered.

I won't get over this.

That was the realization that settles over me as I walk through the night.

The polite fiction I've been telling myself—that this is a crush, an infatuation, something that will fade with time—disintegrates in the face of what I just witnessed.

The rational part of my brain argues that no feeling lasts forever, that even grief evolves.

But the man who watched Cyril kiss Jules beneath that streetlight knows better.

Some loves don't diminish; they just become incorporated into your being, like a scar that changes how you move through the world.

I reach my apartment building and climb the stairs slowly, each step heavier than the last. Inside, I don't bother turning on the lights. The darkness suits my mood, and I know the layout well enough to navigate by memory and the faint glow from street lamps outside.

My phone buzzes again. I shouldn't look. I know I shouldn't.

Cyril: Everything's perfect. Thanks for the advice. See you Monday.

I don't respond. What could I possibly say?

I sink onto my couch, still wearing my coat, and stare at nothing.

Somewhere across town, Cyril is with Jules.

They're touching, laughing, connecting in ways I've only imagined.

And Jules—talented, charming, French Jules—is giving Cyril exactly what he deserves: passion, attention, affection freely expressed.

While I sit here, having never said a word about my feelings. Having played the supportive friend while dying inside. Having given advice that has now led to their consummation.

I was Cyrano without the poetry, the sword skills, or the tragic nobility.

Just a man who couldn't find the courage to speak, watching from the shadows as someone else claims the happiness I wanted.

Tomorrow, I'll get up. I'll shower. I'll plan our new author’s book tour.

I'll continue being work-Hart, functioning with professional competence while real-Hart carries this quiet devastation.

I'll answer Cyril's texts and listen to his stories and offer advice when asked, because that's what friends do.

And maybe someday, this will hurt less. Maybe someday, seeing them together won't feel like drowning on dry land. Maybe someday, I'll meet someone who makes me forget what it felt like to watch Cyril walk away snuggled up with Jules.

But tonight, in the darkness of my apartment, I acknowledge the truth I've been avoiding: I won't get over this. Not really. Not completely.

And somehow, I'll have to learn to live with that.