Page 9 of The Cyrano Situation

Rebecca called the meeting to order, and we dove into discussions about the fall list, marketing strategies, and production schedules.

I took meticulous notes, as always, but found myself periodically checking my phone under the table.

Jules had sent a photo of a student's paper with an incomprehensible margin note, followed by:

Sometimes I write comments when I'm half asleep and then can't decipher them the next day. Pretty sure this says "metaphor?" but it could also be "my father." Context clues aren't helping.

I smiled, quickly typing back:

Perhaps "more effort"? As in, the student should make more of it?

"Something amusing in your notes, Cyril?"

I jerked my head up to find Rebecca and the entire room staring at me. Hart, across the table, had an unreadable expression.

"No, sorry," I mumbled, feeling my face flame. "Just... caught a typo."

"Must have been hilarious," said Marcus from Sales, grinning. "Never seen you smile like that over a typo before."

A few people chuckled. Hart didn't.

"Ah, leave him alone," said Marlene, waving a dismissive hand. "Our Cyril's got a spring in his step these days. Hart's little project is clearly working."

Hart's head snapped up. "It's not a 'project,'" he said, his voice sharper than I'd ever heard it. "Cyril's not a project."

An awkward silence fell over the room.

Rebecca cleared her throat. "Right. Moving on to the marketing budget for the Spencer biography..."

The meeting continued, but I couldn't focus. Hart's words kept echoing in my head, along with the unusual edge in his voice. Was he angry with me? Had I done something wrong?

When Rebecca finally released us, I gathered my things quickly, intending to catch Hart before he disappeared. But by the time I'd organized my notes and closed my laptop, he was gone.

Back in my office, I tried to focus on work, but my mind kept drifting to Hart's strange mood. We'd barely spoken in days, I realized. Not since... well, not since I'd started getting more comfortable texting Jules on my own.

My phone buzzed. Jules again:

You're right! "More effort." Mystery solved. You should be an editor or something.

I smiled despite my distracted thoughts.

I'll consider a career change immediately. How's the grading going?

Slowly. Very slowly. Might need more coffee. Or wine. Or both, mixed together in unholy matrimony.

I don't recommend that combination. Strictly from a chemical perspective.

Fine, fine. Separate glasses. I bow to your scientific wisdom. What are you working on?

I hesitated, then decided honesty was the best approach:

Trying to work but distracted by office politics. Nothing serious, just... people can be complicated.

Tell me about it. My department would make an excellent psychological case study. Want to talk about it?

Did I? The thought of explaining Hart's behavior meant explaining... everything. The text coaching, the late nights in his office analyzing Jules's messages, the way Hart had gradually stopped offering advice as I'd grown more confident.

It's a long story. Probably boring to anyone not directly involved.

I doubt that. But I'm here if you change your mind. Complicated people are kind of my specialty. I teach contemporary and 19th century British literature, after all.

I smiled at that, about to reply when a knock at my door made me look up.

Hart stood there, looking uncharacteristically hesitant.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

I nodded, setting my phone down. "Of course."

He came in but didn't sit, hovering awkwardly near my desk. "I wanted to apologize for snapping in the meeting. That was... unprofessional."

"You didn't snap," I said automatically. "You just... spoke firmly."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Firmly, then. Still. Not my best moment."

I studied him, trying to understand what was happening behind his usually expressive eyes. They seemed guarded now.

"Is something wrong, Hart? You seem..." I searched for the right word. "Different."

He shrugged, a forced casualness that didn't suit him at all. "Nothing's wrong. Just busy. Big publicity push for the Nguyen launch."

"Right," I said, not believing him for a second. Hart thrived under pressure. I'd seen him coordinate three major book launches in a single week without breaking a sweat.

An uncomfortable silence stretched between us.

"So," he finally said, gesturing vaguely at my phone. "Things are good with Jules?"

"Yes," I said cautiously. "We're... communicating well."

"That's great," Hart said, with a brightness that sounded strained. "Really great. I'm glad my... advice was helpful."

"It was," I assured him. "I wouldn't have known where to start without you."

He nodded, eyes landing on the now-cold coffee cup he'd brought me hours ago. "You didn't drink your backup coffee."

"Oh," I looked at it guiltily. "I meant to. I just got busy with the meeting and then—"

"It's fine," Hart cut me off, waving a dismissive hand. "You don't need me bringing you coffee anymore. You've got your fancy beans now."

There was something in his tone I couldn't quite place. Something that made me feel like we were having two different conversations.

"Hart," I began, not sure what I was going to say but feeling like I needed to say something.

My phone buzzed loudly on the desk, Jules's name lighting up the screen. Hart's eyes flicked to it, then back to me.

"You should get that," he said, already backing toward the door. "Sounds important."

"It's not—"

"We'll catch up later," he said, and then he was gone, leaving me staring at the empty doorway.

I picked up my phone, reading Jules's message:

Just realized I've been talking about myself too much. Tell me more about you, Cyril. What makes you tick?

I stared at the message, feeling a strange hollowness in my chest. What made me tick? Routine. Order. Predictability.

And lately, text messages from Jules... and coffee from Hart.

I looked at the cold cup on my desk, then back at my phone, suddenly uncertain about everything.

Slowly, I typed:

I'm still figuring that out, to be honest.

And for once, I didn't analyze my response at all.