Page 6 of The Cyrano Situation

"Breathe," Hart instructed. "In through the nose, out through the mouth. I can literally hear you hyperventilating."

I complied, drawing in a shaky breath.

"Now read me his exact message."

After I recited it, Hart made an appreciative sound. "That's good! He's engaged, he shared something about his day, and he asked you a question that plays to your strengths. This is going well."

"It is?"

"Yes, you adorable disaster. Now, tell me truthfully—what kinds of books do you actually edit?"

"Primarily literary fiction with commercial appeal, some historical fiction, and the occasional narrative nonfiction," I said automatically. "My specialties are complex character studies and works that engage with canonical literature in innovative ways."

"Oookaaay, but we need to make it sound less like a LinkedIn profile and more like a human conversation," Hart said.

"Type this: 'Mostly literary fiction and historical novels.

I have a weakness for books that reference other books…

literary Easter eggs, if you will. Any luck with the Hemingway skeptics? '"

"That's... actually quite good," I admitted, typing the message. "Though I feel compelled to point out that 'Easter eggs' is technically anachronistic when referring to literary allusions that predate digital media."

"And I feel compelled to point out that you're texting a cute guy, not submitting to The New Yorker," Hart retorted. "Send it."

I sent the message, then immediately regretted it. "Wait, should I have asked about what he teaches? Is it presumptuous to assume he only teaches American literature? What if he's a medievalist or specializes in postcolonial theory or—"

"Cyril."

"Yes?"

"You asked about his Hemingway students. That's a normal follow-up question. It's fine."

"Right." I pushed my glasses up my nose. "Of course."

"While we wait for him to respond, can I ask you something?" Hart's voice had shifted slightly, taking on a more careful tone.

"I suppose."

"Why are you so nervous about this? And don't say it's because you're naturally anxious. I've seen you demolish senior editors in acquisitions meetings without breaking a sweat."

I leaned back against my couch, considering the question.

"Professional contexts are different. There are established protocols, clear objectives.

But this..." I gestured vaguely, though Hart couldn't see me.

"Dating is essentially asking someone to continually choose you, day after day, despite having full access to all your flaws and peculiarities. It's... statistically improbable."

"That's the most depressing definition of dating I've ever heard," Hart said, but his voice was gentle. "And also wrong."

"How so?"

"Dating isn't about ignoring flaws. It's about finding someone whose peculiarities fit with yours. Like puzzle pieces."

I snorted. "That's alarmingly sentimental coming from someone whose dating app profile once listed 'tacos' as both his religion and political affiliation."

"Hey, I stand by that. Tacos are bipartisan and spiritually fulfilling." Hart paused. "But seriously, you're a catch, Cyril. You're brilliant and fascinating and you care deeply about things that matter. Anyone would be lucky to date you."

Something warm and unexpected bloomed in my chest. Before I could formulate a response that wouldn't sound pathetically grateful, my phone vibrated with Jules's reply.

"He responded," I said, grateful for the interruption. "Should I read it to you?"

"Hit me."

I cleared my throat. "'Literary Easter eggs!

I love that phrase! And yes, I managed to win over a few Hemingway converts by the end of class.

I actually teach a pretty wide range of topics.

Everything from the American Renaissance to contemporary fiction.

This semester I'm doing a special seminar on literary adaptations and retellings.

What's the best book that's crossed your desk lately? '"

"Jackpot," Hart said, and I could hear the grin in his voice. "He's giving you multiple threads to pick up. And a seminar on retellings? That's perfect for you, Mr. I-Can-Name-Every-Significant-Reworking-Of-Greek-Myths-Published-Since-1950."

"That's hardly a remarkable feat. Any moderately well-read person could… " I caught myself. "Never mind. What do I say now?"

"This one you can handle yourself," Hart said. "Talk about books you love. Just be yourself."

Panic seized my throat. "Be myself? That's terrible advice. Myself is verbose and pedantic and once spent forty minutes explaining the historical inaccuracies in a colleague's Tudor-era romance novel until she cried."

"Okay, be yourself but with a filter," Hart amended. "You know how to talk about books without making people cry. I've seen you do it."

"That's different. That's professional."

"Then be professional-you, but friendlier. You can do this, Cyril. I believe in you."

The simple declaration shouldn't have affected me as much as it did. I swallowed hard. "Fine. I'll try. But stay on the line in case I need emergency intervention."

"Always," Hart promised.

I set the phone down and stared at Jules's message again. Books. I could talk about books. Books were safe. Books made sense in a way people rarely did.

I began typing, then deleting, then typing again. After several false starts, I settled on:

The best recent manuscript was a retelling of the Orpheus myth set in 1970s Berlin—the divided city as a modern underworld. Brilliant stuff. Your seminar sounds fascinating. What's your favorite retelling? (And congrats on the Hemingway converts. The old man and the sea of undergraduate apathy...)

I read it over twice, wincing at my own attempt at wordplay, but unable to think of anything better. "I'm sending it," I announced to Hart. "God help me."

"Read it to me first."

I did.

"That's perfect!" Hart said, sounding genuinely impressed. "See? You can do this."

"It's mediocre at best. The Hemingway joke is painful."

"It's adorkable, which is exactly your brand. Send it."

I pressed send before I could second-guess myself further, then immediately swiped out of the text screen. "There. Now I need approximately 90 minutes to recover from this ordeal."

"You're doing great," Hart assured me. "Want to talk about something else while we wait? How's that art forgery manuscript coming along?"

"The author keeps using 'nonplussed' to mean 'unimpressed' and I'm contemplating ritual seppuku."

Hart laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "That bad, huh?"

"Worse. The protagonist is supposed to be an art history professor, but he identified a Vermeer by its 'bold brushstrokes and vibrant color palette.'"

"Isn't Vermeer known for, like, the opposite of that?"

"Precisely!" I felt myself relaxing slightly as we slipped into the comfortable rhythm of shop talk. "Vermeer's technique is characterized by its delicacy and subtle luminosity. The author might as well have described a Picasso as 'pleasingly symmetrical.'"

Hart was still laughing when my phone dinged with a message notification in my hand.

"That was fast," Hart said.

"Too fast," I agreed, swiping with trepidation. I read Jules's response and felt my mouth go dry. "Oh no."

"What? What did he say?"

"'The Orpheus retelling sounds amazing! My favorite is probably Hadestown—have you seen it?

Or if we're talking books, I loved Home Fire by Kamila Shamsie.

And speaking of books and adaptations...

would you maybe want to get coffee sometime and continue this conversation in person?

There's a great independent bookstore/café near campus. '"

There was a beat of silence.

"He asked me out," I said, my voice faint. "An actual, unambiguous invitation to meet in person. What do I do?"

"You say yes, obviously!" Hart's voice was bright, enthusiastic, but I thought I detected something else beneath it. Something tight and controlled. Before I could analyze it further, Hart continued, "This is great, right? This is what you wanted."

"Yes, but..." I ran a hand through my hair, disheveling it completely. "Texting is one thing. In person, he'll see the actual me. The one who makes obscure literary references and rambles about punctuation and doesn't know how to make normal human small talk."

"Cyril." Hart's voice softened. "The 'actual you' is pretty damn great. And Jules seems like he'd appreciate someone who makes obscure literary references. He teaches literature, for God's sake."

"But what if—"

"No what-ifs. Say yes to coffee. I'll help you prepare. We'll come up with topics, practice conversation starters, the whole nine yards."

I took a deep breath. "You'd do that?"

"Of course. That's why I'm here." There was that strange note in Hart's voice again—something almost wistful. But before I could identify it, his tone brightened. "Team Cyril!"