Page 21 of The Cyrano Situation

His smile widened slightly. "Me too, Cy."

The rest of the day passed in a blur of anticipation and anxiety. I called Jules during my lunch break, our conversation slightly less strained than previous ones, though still not back to normal.

"You sound better today," he observed.

"Do I?"

"Yes. More... present."

I felt a pang of guilt. "Jules, there's something I need to tell you. Not over the phone, though."

"That sounds ominous," he said, his tone light but with an undercurrent of concern.

"It's not—well, I don't know what it is, exactly. I'm still figuring things out."

"Does this have anything to do with why you've been so distant this week?"

I hesitated. "Yes."

"I see." He was quiet for a moment. "Would it help if I came to you? I could come by your office this evening."

The offer was tempting in its simplicity. Jules coming here would force a resolution, one way or another. But it also felt like cheating somehow—taking a shortcut through the emotional work I needed to do.

"Not tonight," I said. "I have something I need to do first. But soon. I promise."

After we hung up, I stared at my phone, wondering if I'd just made things better or worse.

According to decision theory, the human brain often creates false dichotomies—this or that, black or white—when reality offers infinite gradations of possibility.

I was trying to see my situation as a simple choice between two men, when perhaps the real choice was about what kind of person I wanted to be.

By five-fifteen, I could no longer pretend to work. I shut down my computer, straightened my desk out of habit, and headed for the elevator. Hart was already gone from his office. Had he left early? Changed his mind?

The coffee shop was busy with the after-work crowd when I arrived. I scanned the room, my heart sinking when I didn't immediately see Hart. Then I spotted him at a corner table, two fresh coffees in front of him, his leg bouncing slightly—a tell of his own nervousness.

He saw me at the same moment, raising a hand in greeting. I navigated through the crowd, my pulse quickening with each step.

"Hi," I said, sliding into the chair across from him.

"Hi yourself." He pushed one of the coffees toward me. "Black, one and a half…"

"Sugars," I finished with him, earning a small smile.

We sat in silence for a moment, the ambient noise of the coffee shop creating a bubble around us. Hart was rarely quiet. He filled silences the way nature abhors a vacuum. His restraint now spoke volumes about his uncertainty.

"I missed you last week," I said finally, deciding that if ever there was a time for directness, it was now.

Hart's eyes softened. "I missed you, too. More than I expected, honestly."

"Why didn't you come to work? Were you really sick?"

He grimaced. "Not physically. But I couldn't face you, not right away. I was embarrassed. And scared."

"Scared?" The concept of Hart being afraid of anything was foreign to me. He was the most confident person I knew.

"Terrified," he admitted. "I've never told anyone I loved them before. Not like that."

The reminder of his words sent a shiver through me. "I've been thinking about that all week."

"Having regrets about running away?" His tone was light, but his eyes were serious.

"I didn't run away," I protested, then sighed. "Okay, maybe I did. But I needed to process."

"And have you? Processed?"

I took a deep breath. "I realized something this last week.

When you weren't there, it was like... like the office lost its center of gravity.

Everything was off-balance. I kept turning to tell you things or reaching for my phone to text you.

And every time I remembered why you weren't there, it hurt. "

Hart was watching me intently now, his coffee forgotten. "What are you saying, Cy?"

"I'm saying that I've been so focused on analyzing everything that I missed what was right in front of me." I met his gaze directly. "You."

His breath caught audibly. "Me?"

"You're my best friend. The person who knows me better than anyone. The one who pushes me out of my comfort zone and makes me laugh and brings me coffee exactly how I like it." I swallowed hard. "And I think... no, I know... that I have feelings for you that go beyond friendship."

Hart's expression transformed, hope blooming across his features like sunrise. "You do?"

"I do. And it terrifies me because I've never felt this way before. I can't analyze it or edit it or put it into neat paragraphs. It's messy and complicated and completely illogical."

"Love usually is," he said softly.

The word hung between us. Love. Was that what this was? This ache when he wasn't near, this comfort when he was, this desire to be better, braver, more honest?

"There's something else," I continued, knowing I needed to get everything out while I had the courage. "Jules."

Hart's expression dimmed slightly. "Right. Jules."

"It's only fair I talk to him in person. I met his parents. We never used the 'l' word but we…"

Hart's ears reddened. "Yeah, don't remind me."

I shook my head slowly. "He is special to me.

He's a great person and I don't want to hurt him and he we have so much in common but…

he doesn't know me—not the way you do." I reached across the table, hesitantly placing my hand over his.

"I need to tell him the truth. That I can't continue to pursue something with him when I have feelings for someone else. "

Hart turned his hand, interlacing our fingers. The simple touch sent electricity up my arm. "And what about us? What happens next?"

I laughed softly. "I have no idea. And I'm usually the one with the five-year plan."

"I'm okay with figuring it out as we go," Hart said, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "As long as we're figuring it out together."

We sat there, hands linked, eyes locked, the noise of the coffee shop fading into background static. I felt something shift inside me—a realization that some things couldn't be edited into perfection or analyzed until they made sense. Some things just had to be felt.

"Cy," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes?"

"I would really like to kiss you now."

My stomach launched into what felt like an entire Cirque du Soleil performance—complete with trapeze artists and someone juggling flaming torches—as my lips curled up in a smile. “I think I'd be okay with that.”

I leaned forward, hesitantly at first, then with growing certainty. Hart met me halfway, his free hand coming up to cup my cheek. When our lips touched, it wasn't the explosive passion romance novels always described. It was softer, gentler. A question being answered, a conversation without words.

His lips were warm and slightly sweet from the chocolate in his coffee.

I felt his smile against my mouth, and I couldn't help smiling back, our kiss breaking momentarily before resuming with more confidence.

My hand found its way to his nape, steadying myself as the world seemed to tilt on its axis.

According to poets throughout history, a first kiss can last a moment or an eternity. This one seemed to exist outside of time entirely—a perfect pause in the universe.

Until a familiar voice broke through our bubble.

"Cyril?"

We pulled apart, startled. Standing beside our table, expression frozen in shock, was Jules. His eyes wide with hurt and confusion as he looked between Hart and me.

"Jules," I managed, my voice strangled. "What are you doing here?"

"You sounded so strange on the phone. I was worried." His gaze shifted to Hart. "I'm sorry, I don't think we've met."

Hart cleared his throat, his hand still holding mine across the table. "

I'm Hart. Hart Fielding.

Recognition dawned in Jules' eyes. "Hart? Your friend from work? " He trailed off, comprehension replacing confusion. "The one that had been helping you with your text messages?"

The silence that followed was deafening, a black hole collapsing in on itself.

"I think," Jules said carefully, "that someone needs to explain what's going on."

And just like that, the perfect moment shattered into a thousand impossible pieces, leaving me with the realization that sometimes, the most carefully constructed narratives fall apart with a single unexpected plot twist.