Page 2 of The Cyrano Situation

Chapter Two - A Dating Coach

Hart

I 've always been a people person. My mom says I came out of the womb smiling, and I've pretty much kept it up for the last thirty-four years.

People are fascinating to me—all those dreams and fears and quirky little habits bundled up in human packages.

And Cyril Nolan might be the most fascinating package of them all.

I'm Hart Fielding, by the way. Publicity director at Pinnacle Publishing by day, amateur human puzzle-solver by night. Or, well, all the time, really.

The morning after our coffee shop detour, I found myself thinking about Cyril while I waited for my toaster to pop.

The man counts his steps to the bathroom, for crying out loud.

Fourteen of them, precisely. Who does that?

It's both weird and weirdly endearing, like most things about him.

The way his forehead creases in concentration when he counts.

I could almost trace the pattern from memory now.

My toast popped up and, once again, was slightly burned because I can never get the setting adjusted just right, and I slathered it with peanut butter while scrolling through my phone.

Three new matches on Hinge that I swiped past with barely a glance.

A text from my sister about Mom's birthday next month, and an email from our production department about from our production department about Melissa Gibbon's book tour.

But my mind kept drifting back to Cyril and his fourteen steps.

I caught myself smiling at the memory of his methodical movements, the careful precision in everything he did.

There was something comforting about his routines, something that made me want to learn all his little patterns and habits.

I wondered what other numbers Cyril kept track of in that fascinating brain of his.

And why I suddenly cared so much about finding out.

The way he'd looked so affronted at the suggestion of dating apps, like I'd proposed he take up skydiving in the nude.

The careful way he ate his sandwich, one precise bite after another.

The flicker of something in his eyes I knew he'd never admit to when I'd offered to help.

Was it loneliness? Curiosity? I wasn't sure.

He needed someone. That much was obvious to anyone with eyes and half a brain. Not just anyone, though. Cyril needed someone who would understand his quirks, appreciate his dry humor, and maybe, gently, help him step outside those carefully drawn lines he lived within.

I finished my toast, downed my coffee (a home-brewed approximation of yesterday's honey cardamom creation), and headed out the door. But instead of my usual podcast, I found myself opening the dating apps on my phone, studying them with new eyes.

What would Cyril's profile look like? Not the basic stats—though those were impressive enough: 36, head editor at a respected publishing house, master's in comparative literature, fluent in French and "conversational" in Italian (I'd heard him on the phone with an Italian author once, and it sounded pretty damn fluent to me).

No, I mean the real Cyril. The one who counts his steps and has elbow patches on his cardigans and could eviscerate a bad manuscript with surgical precision.

By the time I reached the office, a plan was forming.

I spent the morning in meetings about Melissa's tour, arguing for a stop in Seattle that the finance department didn't want to spring for. ("It's the most literate city in America!" I insisted. "Their idea of a wild Friday night is browsing at Elliott Bay Book Company!")

At lunch, I ducked out to grab a sandwich from the deli around the corner and brought it back to my office. Then, with the door closed, I opened my laptop and navigated to a dating site I'd used before—one that emphasized profiles and compatibility over swiping and immediate gratification.

"This is probably crossing a line," I muttered to myself as I clicked "Create New Account." But sometimes lines needed crossing. For the greater good. For Cyril's good, specifically.

I hesitated at the username field. It couldn't be anything obviously connected to Cyril, but it should reflect him somehow. After a moment's thought, I typed: LiteraryMinded36.

The basic stats were easy enough. Age, height (I'd guess about 5'10"), education. For the profile picture, I hit a snag. I couldn't use an actual photo of Cyril—that would be a step too far even for me, and besides, he'd be recognized instantly if anyone from work saw it.

Instead, I found a stock photo of a bookshelf that looked suitably intellectual without being pretentious. I'd explain the lack of photos in the profile text. Something about privacy and wanting to connect based on interests first.

Speaking of interests...

I opened a new tab and pulled up ChatGPT.

"I need help crafting a dating profile for a literary-minded introvert who loves structure and routine," I typed.

"He's intelligent, analytical, and has a dry sense of humor.

He works in publishing and appreciates fine literature, particularly Japanese mysteries and literary fiction with unreliable narrators. "

The AI responded with a generic profile that missed the mark entirely. Too many exclamation points, not enough specificity. Cyril would hate it.

I tried again. "More specific, please. This person has particular tastes.

He drinks black coffee exclusively, counts his steps, and arranges his books by a system only he understands.

He's not looking for adventure but for someone who appreciates quiet evenings and thoughtful conversation.

He's put off by excessive enthusiasm but values genuine connection. "

This time, the response was closer, but still not quite right. It sounded like a caricature of an introvert, not the complex, fascinating man I was trying to represent.

I decided to take a different approach. "Let's discuss some books," I typed. "What would you say about Kazuo Ishiguro's 'The Remains of the Day' in terms of its exploration of duty versus personal fulfillment?"

The AI gave a thoughtful, nuanced response about Stevens the butler and his repressed emotions. Now we were getting somewhere.

"And what about the use of unreliable narrators in contemporary fiction? How does it challenge our understanding of truth and perspective?"

Another detailed, intellectual response. I copied portions of these analyses, modified them slightly, and began crafting a profile that felt authentically Cyril.

"I find comfort in routine and meaning in literature," I wrote. "My ideal evening involves a well-brewed cup of tea (or a glass of burgundy, depending on the book in hand) and an author who understands that the spaces between words often speak louder than the words themselves."

I continued, weaving in references to books I'd seen on Cyril's office shelves, hinting at his analytical nature and dry wit without being too specific.

I mentioned a preference for meaningful conversation over small talk, quiet cafés over noisy bars, and quality over quantity in all things—relationships included.

For the "looking for" section, I wrote: "Someone who understands that romance isn't always grand gestures and dramatic declarations.

Sometimes it's finding someone who notices which book you're reading and asks the right questions about it.

Someone who respects boundaries but isn't afraid to occasionally suggest crossing one or two.

Intelligence is non-negotiable; kindness even more so. "

I read over the profile three times, tweaking words here and there until it felt right. Not exactly Cyril—I didn't know him well enough for that—but a version of him that would attract the kind of person who might appreciate the real thing.

Before I could overthink it, I hit "Create Profile."

Almost immediately, a wave of guilt washed over me. What was I doing? Creating a fake dating profile was definitely crossing more than one line. If Cyril found out, he'd probably never speak to me again. And with good reason.

But then I thought about him in his office, meticulously marking manuscripts, eating the same sandwich every day, going home to an apartment where he counted his steps and probably had his books arranged in some system that made sense only to him.

I found myself wondering what it would be like to see that space, to understand the careful order he created around himself.

I thought about how his eyes had lit up, just for a second, when I'd suggested helping him find someone—how that tiny shift in his expression had made something in my chest tighten unexpectedly.

Everyone deserves connection. Even rigid, routine-loving editors with elbow patches. Even Cyril, whose predictable habits I'd somehow come to find more charming than I realize I did.

I closed the laptop, promising myself I'd check the profile later. If nothing came of it in a week, I'd delete it and no one would be the wiser. If something interesting happened... well, I'd cross that line when I came to it.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of publicity plans and press release drafts. At five-thirty, I packed up my things and headed out, stopping by Cyril's office on my way. The door was open, and he was still at his desk, red pen in hand, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Heading out?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe.

He looked up, momentarily startled, then composed himself. "In a bit. I want to finish these notes first."

"Don't stay too late. Even books need to sleep sometimes."

A slight quirk of his lips—not quite a smile, but close. "I don't think that's physiologically possible for books."

"Metaphorically, then." I adjusted my messenger bag on my shoulder. "Hey, I'm sorry if I came on too strong yesterday. About the dating thing."

Cyril set down his pen, which I took as a good sign. "It's fine. You meant well."

"I did. I do." I hesitated, then added, "The offer still stands, you know. If you ever change your mind."

"I won't," he said, but there was less conviction than before.

"Sure, sure." I pushed off from the doorframe. "Well, goodnight, Cyril. Enjoy your... what are you reading these days?"

"Higashino. 'The Devotion of Suspect X.'"

"Any good?"

A genuine spark of interest lit his eyes. "Brilliant, actually. It's a howdunit rather than a whodunit. The reader knows the killer from the beginning, but the puzzle is how they'll evade detection."

I made a mental note to add that to the profile later. "Sounds intriguing. Maybe I'll borrow it when you're done."

"You don't strike me as a mystery reader," Cyril said, studying me with those analytical eyes.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Nolan." I grinned and gave him a small salute. "See you tomorrow."

As I walked to the subway, I felt a strange flutter in my chest. Guilt, probably.

Or maybe indigestion from the pastrami sandwich.

Definitely not anything to do with the anything to do with the way Cyril's eyes had lit up talking about his book, the tiny crinkles forming at their corners, or how he'd somehow seen right through me and noticed what kind of reader I might be.

Definitely, absolutely not. That would be ridiculous.

At home, I heated up some leftover Thai food and opened my laptop again. The dating profile had three messages already. I skimmed them quickly—two were clearly copy-pasted intros, but the third...

"Your profile caught my attention immediately," it read.

"Not many people list Higashino as a favorite author, and your thoughts on unreliable narrators made me think of Ishiguro's 'A Pale View of Hills,' which I recently revisited.

I'm curious: what do you think makes a truly great ending to a novel?

The satisfying conclusion of all plot threads, or something more ambiguous that lingers in the mind? "

The username was Jules28. The profile picture showed a bookshelf similar to the one I'd chosen, but with a small jade plant visible in the corner.

The bio described a 34-year-old literature professor specializing in contemporary fiction, with interests in chess, classical music, and "conversations that don't involve the weather. "

I clicked through to the full profile and read it carefully. Intelligent, thoughtful, clearly well-read. A bit reserved, perhaps, but in a way that might complement Cyril's own reserve. There was a dry wit to some of the responses that reminded me, oddly, of Cyril himself.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I drafted a reply.

"The best endings," I wrote, channeling what I imagined Cyril might say, "are the ones that feel both inevitable and surprising.

Where all the pieces have been laid out, but you don't see the pattern until the final page.

I prefer endings that respect the reader's intelligence—no neat bows on complex problems, but enough resolution to feel the journey was worthwhile.

Ishiguro understands this beautifully; 'A Pale View of Hills' haunted me for weeks after I finished it. "

I read it over twice, then hit send before I could second-guess myself.

This was definitely crossing a line. Multiple lines. Possibly an entire highway of lines.

But as I closed the laptop and carried my empty plate to the kitchen, I couldn't help feeling a spark of excitement.

Cyril deserved someone who would ask him thoughtful questions about books and appreciate his structured approach to life.

Someone who might, occasionally, convince him to try a lavender latte or take fifteen steps to the bathroom instead of fourteen.

Whether that someone was Jules28 remained to be seen. But at least now there was a possibility.

And possibilities, I've always believed, are what make life interesting.