Page 22 of The Cyrano Situation

Chapter Fifteen - Defining the Tropes

Cyril

"I can explain," Hart and I said simultaneously, which only made things worse.

Jules raised an eyebrow, and I noticed he was holding a worn copy of Proust's In Search of Lost Time , which seemed poetically appropriate for the moment. A man confronting time lost to misunderstandings.

"Actually," Jules said, sliding into the empty chair at our table without invitation, "I think I understand better than you might expect."

My brain struggled to process this non-catastrophic response. I'd been prepared for outrage, betrayal, possibly a dramatic exit accompanied by the slamming of doors. He was French, after all. The calm, measured tone threw my anxiety-primed nervous system into confusion.

"You do?" Hart asked, his voice pitched slightly higher than normal. His hand found mine under the table, and I clung to it like a shipwreck survivor to driftwood.

Jules set his book down and leaned forward. "When I found out that Hart was helping you with our text conversations, I was a bit confused at first. Then I started thinking about it—I'm a literature professor, after all. The pieces started falling into place."

"Pieces?" I managed, my throat dry.

"Cyrano de Bergerac," Jules said with a knowing smile. "One of my favorite plays. A handsome man serving as the mouthpiece for another's affections, only in this case—" he gestured between Hart and me, "—I suspect the Cyrano and Christian fell for each other instead."

Hart's grip on my hand tightened. I felt my face flush with heat.

"I'm not wrong, am I?" Jules asked.

Before either of us could answer, a waiter appeared at our table. He was tall, with an undercut and a sleeve of tattoos visible beneath his rolled-up shirt. His nametag read "Ari."

"Can I get you anything?" he asked Jules, his gaze lingering a beat too long to be merely professional. "We have some excellent pastries today."

"I'll have a cappuccino," Jules said, offering a smile that contained a hint of interest. "And... surprise me with something sweet."

"I excel at sweet surprises," the waiter replied with a wink before turning to Hart and me. "And for you two? More coffee? Or perhaps a celebratory dessert? The chocolate croissants are freshly baked."

"Two chocolate croissants would be perfect," Hart said, recovering his signature charm. "Thank you."

As the waiter walked away, Jules turned back to us with a raised eyebrow. "Handsome, isn't he? Perhaps the universe is offering me a consolation prize?" His tone was light, but I detected a hint of genuine wistfulness beneath it.

"Jules, I'm so sorry," I began, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I never meant to mislead you. The texts were genuinely from me. They were my thoughts and feelings. Hart just helped me express them better. I was so afraid of saying the wrong thing, of being... well, me."

"Too analytical? Too verbose? Too fond of obscure literary references?" Jules suggested.

"Exactly."

"Cyril," Jules said gently, "those were the qualities I found most interesting about you."

I blinked, processing this information like a computer attempting to run incompatible software.

"Really?"

"Really. Though I have to admit, some of those texts were suspiciously smooth. Particularly that one about the moonlight and the promise of tomorrow's dawn."

Hart had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "That might have been a bit much."

"It was beautiful," Jules acknowledged, "but it didn't sound like the same person who spent fifteen minutes at the faculty mixer explaining the statistical improbabilities in Romeo and Juliet ."

I winced at the memory. "Not my finest moment."

"I found it charming," Jules said, then glanced between us. "But clearly not as charming as Hart found it."

Hart's thumb traced circles on my palm under the table. "Cyril doesn't realize how fascinating he is. His mind works like no one else's."

The waiter returned with Jules's cappuccino and a lavish slice of tiramisu, along with our croissants. He set Jules's order down with particular care.

"One cappuccino and our signature tiramisu—layers of complexity with a kick at the end. Rather like good conversation." He placed a small card beside the saucer. "And my number, in case you want to discuss... literature... or something, sometime."

Jules picked up the card with a surprised smile. "Well, that was direct."

"Life's too short for subtext," Ari replied. "I get off at seven."

As he walked away, Jules tucked the card into his book. "See? The universe provides. Though I admit this is not how I expected today to unfold when I spotted you two through the window."

"You're being incredibly understanding about all this," Hart said, his expression a mixture of relief and lingering guilt.

Jules shrugged and took a sip of his cappuccino.

"Don't get me wrong. I'm… disappointed. Cyril and I had good conversations and chemistry, and I thought we might have something promising.

" He looked at me directly. "But I'm not interested in being someone's second choice or coming between something that's obviously been developing for a while.

How long have you two been dancing around this? "

Hart and I exchanged glances.

"Two years, four months, and approximately seventeen days," I supplied automatically, then caught myself. "That is, we've known each other that long. The other… developments are more recent."

Jules nodded, using his fork to cut a perfect bite of tiramisu. "As I suspected. The way Hart talked about you when he explained the texting arrangement... well, let's just say Roxane might have noticed Christian's feelings for Cyrano if she'd been paying attention."

"I didn't realize myself until recently," Hart admitted.

"I thought I was just being a good friend, helping Cyril connect with someone who appreciated him.

But every text I helped with, every conversation about what made him special—I finally realized I was really just articulating my own feelings. "

My heart performed a statistically improbable somersault in my chest.

"And you, Cyril?" Jules asked. "When did you know?"

I considered the question with the thoroughness it deserved. "I think I've always known on some level, but I dismissed it as statistically unlikely that someone like Hart would be interested in someone like me. The probability seemed... negligible."

"Someone like you?" Hart interjected, frowning. "You mean brilliant, thoughtful, and genuinely kind?"

"I was thinking more 'socially awkward overthinker with an unhealthy attachment to obscure Japanese mysteries,'" I clarified.

Jules laughed. "And here we have the crux of your Cyrano situation. You've been so convinced of your own unworthiness that you couldn't see what was right in front of you." He took another bite of tiramisu. "Though I will say, this is a much happier resolution than the original play."

"No one dies of a sword wound while reciting poetry?" Hart suggested.

"Precisely," Jules agreed. "Though I maintain Rostand's ending has its own tragic beauty."

"The beauty of missed connections and timing never quite aligning," I mused. "Literature is full of such near-misses. We're conditioned to find them more poignant than happy endings."

"Speak for yourself," Hart said, palming the nape of my neck. "I'll take our version over Rostand's any day."

Jules studied us for a moment, then nodded as if confirming something to himself. "You know, in the original play, Cyrano's wit and Christian's beauty are divided between two people. But you two each have both qualities—you're just too busy focusing on what you think you lack to see what you have."

I felt a flush creep up my neck at the unexpected compliment. "That's very generous of you."

"It's observant, not generous," Jules corrected, then glanced over his shoulder to where Ari was serving another table.

"Besides, I think I might prefer someone a bit less complicated right now.

Someone who leaves his number rather than sending literary-infused texts ghostwritten by his best friend. "

"When you put it that way, our situation does sound rather absurd," I acknowledged.

"All the best love stories are, when reduced to their plot points," Jules said. "It's the emotions that make them resonant." He finished his cappuccino and stood up. "And on that note, I think I'll leave you two to your... resolution scene."

"Jules," I said, standing as well, "Again, I truly am sorry for the confusion. You deserved better than being caught in the middle of our... whatever this was."

"Emotional obstinance?" Hart suggested.

"Mutual pining disguised as friendship?" Jules offered.

"Statistical anomaly of affection?" I added.

We all laughed, and the tension that had been humming between us dissipated like morning fog.

"No hard feelings," Jules said, extending his hand. "Though I expect to be invited to the book launch if either of you ever writes this story. It has all the elements of a bestseller."

"Deal," Hart said, shaking his hand. "And thank you."

Jules picked up his book and offered us a small smile before leaning over and kissing me on both cheeks in the French way.

"As a professor of literature, I recognize a good story when I'm in one.

Besides," he glanced toward the counter where Ari the sexy waiter was watching our exchange with interest, "every good narrative needs a plot twist."

With a final nod, he walked toward the exit, pausing only to say something to Liam that made the waiter laugh and check his watch.

Hart and I sank back into our seats, the reality of what had just happened settling around us like autumn leaves.

"That was..."

"Unexpected," I finished for him. "Though statistically speaking, one of the possible outcomes. Just not the one with the highest probability."

Hart's laugh was warm and slightly incredulous. "Only you would calculate the statistical likelihood of your romantic complications, Cyril."