Page 17 of The Cyrano Situation

Chapter Twelve - The Confession

Cyril

I'd sent him three texts and called twice since Friday night. Nothing but silence in return. The last message I'd sent him earlier this evening sat unanswered beneath a string of my increasingly concerned texts:

Me: Hart, is everything okay? You're starting to worry me.

I stared at the message, watching the little "Delivered" notification mocking me. No typing bubbles appeared. No indication he'd even read it.

This wasn't like Hart. In the two years we'd known each other, he'd never gone more than a few hours without responding, even during the busiest publicity campaigns. Hart was reliable—it was one of the things I appreciated most about him. He always showed up, always answered, always had my back.

Until now.

I scrolled back through our text history, searching for any hint that I'd done something to upset him.

Our last exchange had been Friday night when we were finalizing details for my date with Jules and the possible aftermath.

Everything had seemed normal then. Hart had even sent one of his typical jokes about my "hopeless romantic endeavors," as he called them.

But Friday night's date had gone well—at least I thought it had.

Jules had been charming and engaging throughout our conversation, discussing his favorite contemporary literature with genuine passion.

The wine bar had been cozy and intimate, with soft lighting that made his eyes sparkle when he laughed.

When we'd kissed outside afterward, I’d melted into him completely forgetting about my normal aversion to PDA. The wine might have helped with that.

When we’d finally come up for air, I thought I'd caught Hart in my peripheral vision, watching us from across the street.

It was strange but I hadn't mentioned it to Jules. I hadn’t wanted to break the spell of the evening, but I couldn't get the unquiet of possibly seeing him there from niggling in the back of my mind.

What had he been doing there? Had it even been him?

I tossed my phone onto the nightstand and rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. What had happened? Had I missed something? The analytical part of my brain, the part that made me good at my job, ran through the events of Friday night again, searching for clues.

The worry that had been building all weekend settled heavier in my chest. This silence wasn't just unusual—it felt deliberate. Hart was ghosting me, and I had no idea why.

Monday morning brought a gray drizzle that matched my mood perfectly. I arrived at Pinnacle Publishing earlier than usual, hoping to catch Hart before the day's meetings began. His office was dark when I passed by, his desk untouched from Friday.

I hesitated outside his door, then continued to my own office. Maybe he was running late. I'd check again after I sorted through my weekend emails.

An hour later, there was still no sign of him. I was halfway to his office again when I ran into Marissa from HR in the hallway.

"Morning, Cyril," she said, juggling a stack of folders. "If you're looking for Hart, he's not in today. Called out sick."

My stomach twisted. "Sick? Did he say what was wrong?"

She shook her head. "Just that he wasn't feeling well. Might be out tomorrow, too."

"Thanks," I mumbled, already turning back toward my office.

Hart, sick? In all the time I'd known him, he'd never taken a sick day. He once came to work with a 102-degree fever because he didn't want to miss a major publicity meeting. The man was stubborn about his perfect attendance record.

I closed my office door and pulled out my phone, sending another text:

Me: Heard you're sick. Can I bring you anything? Soup? Medicine? Let me know.

I waited, watching the screen. Nothing.

The rest of the morning passed in a distracted blur. I went through the motions of my work, responding to emails, reviewing manuscripts, attending a department meeting, but my thoughts kept drifting to Hart. By lunchtime, my worry had morphed into something closer to panic.

What if he was really sick? What if something had happened to him?

Or what if—and this thought stung more than I expected—he simply didn't want to talk to me anymore?

I couldn't focus on anything. After staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes, I finally gave up. Whatever was going on with Hart, I needed to find out. If he wouldn't respond to my messages, I'd have to take more direct action.

I knocked on Rebecca's door and made up a story about a personal emergency. She waved me off with barely a glance, too engrossed in a manuscript to question my sudden departure.

Twenty minutes later, I was standing outside Hart's apartment building, rainwater dripping from my hair and jacket.

I'd been to his place a handful of times, more often lately since he’d been coaching me.

It was in an old converted brownstone with only one apartment per floor.

I was a little jealous of it truth be told. Hart had great taste.

I buzzed his apartment. No response. I tried again, holding the button longer.

Still nothing.

A woman exited the building, and I caught the door before it closed, mumbling something about forgetting my keys. She gave me a suspicious look but continued on her way. I took the elevator to the fourth floor, rehearsing what I would say when Hart opened his door.

If he opened his door.

I knocked, the sound echoing in the hallway. "Hart? It's Cyril."

Silence.

I knocked again, louder this time. "Hart, I know you're in there. I just want to make sure you're okay."

I heard movement inside, a shuffle, then footsteps. The deadbolt turned, and the door opened a crack, revealing Hart's face. My relief at seeing him quickly turned to concern.

He looked terrible. His usually meticulously styled hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot and underlined by dark circles. He was wearing a faded t-shirt and sweatpants. It was a far cry from his typical impeccable appearance.

"What are you doing here, Cyril?" His voice was flat, lifeless.

"You weren't answering my texts or calls. I got worried." I shifted uncomfortably in the hallway. "Marissa said you were sick."

"I am sick." But he didn't sound congested or feverish. He sounded... empty.

"Can I come in?"

Hart hesitated, then stepped back, opening the door wider without saying anything.

I entered his apartment, immediately noticing the unusual disarray.

Hart was normally fastidious about his living space, but now there were clothes draped over furniture, dishes piled in the sink, and what looked like an empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table.

I turned to face him as he closed the door. "What's going on, Hart? You've been avoiding me since Friday night."

"I haven't been avoiding you," he said, not meeting my eyes. "I told you, I'm sick."

"Bullshit." The word came out sharper than I intended, but my worry had been building for days, and his obvious lie only heightened my frustration. "Something happened, and I want to know what it is. Did I do something wrong?"

Hart moved past me into the living room, running a hand through his already messy hair. "Not everything is about you, Cyril."

That stung, but I followed him. "I never said it was. But we're friends, and suddenly you're ghosting me. I have a right to know why."

Hart sank onto his couch, the cushions exhaling beneath his weight. His apartment smelled stale—a mixture of unwashed clothes and the faint sourness of old takeout containers. This wasn't the Hart I knew. The real Hart would never let his space deteriorate like this.

I took in the dark circles under his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands, the way his shoulders curved inward as if he was trying to make himself smaller. Something in me softened. Whatever was happening, pushing him right now wasn't going to help. He was a wreck.

"Okay," I said, gentler this time. "You don't have to tell me. But I'm not leaving you like this."

Hart looked up, surprise flickering across his exhausted face. "What are you talking about?"

Instead of answering, I shrugged off my rain-dampened jacket and hung it on the coat rack by the door. "When's the last time you showered?"

He blinked, caught off guard by the question. "I don't know. What day is it?"

"Monday," I said, already moving toward his bathroom. "And that tells me everything I need to know."

I flipped on the bathroom light, grimacing at the disarray. There were towels on the floor, the toothpaste was uncapped, the mirror was speckled with water spots. This wasn't just being sick. This was something deeper. I turned the shower on, adjusting the temperature until steam began to rise.

"What are you doing?" Hart appeared in the doorway, arms crossed defensively over his chest.

"Taking care of you, since you clearly aren't taking care of yourself." I gestured to the shower. "Get in. Hot water will help, even if you don't think it will."

For a moment, I thought he might argue, but then his shoulders slumped in surrender. "Fine."

"Clean clothes?" I asked, already backing out of the bathroom.

"Dresser. Second drawer."

I nodded and left him to it, listening for the sound of the shower curtain sliding closed before I moved to his bedroom.

Like the rest of the apartment, it showed signs of neglect.

His bed was unmade, clothes were strewn across the floor, and the blinds were drawn tight against the gray day outside.

I opened the second drawer as instructed, pulling out a soft navy t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that looked more presentable than what he was currently wearing.