Bloom

December

I think that Harry Styles may have been right when he said I run from confrontation. Because despite the fact that I’d asked him why he was standing outside the apartment, I most certainly did not want to have this conversation. I’d even put an ocean between us to avoid it, and that definitely counted as running from confrontation.

But, in the grand scheme of things, it was a conversation that needed to happen. In order for the both of us to move on, there needed to be some sort of closure. I’m pretty sure that our last encounter — in which a civil conversation about me leaving had warped into the fight to end all fights — hadn’t left anyone satisfied. Him, because despite the fact that I’d said the words ‘I never want to see you again,’ he still seemed to think that there was a possibility of reconciliation after everything. And me, because this fucking boy just wouldn’t let me live my own life.

I almost slammed the door in his face, but the eerie calmness that was radiating off of him caught me off guard. Serenity was the last thing I associated with Beckett.

“Can I come in?”

“No,” I replied immediately. I had to grip my coffee cup in order to stop my hands from shaking, and bracing myself between the door and its frame kept my body upright. I really wanted to crumple to the floor and cry, but I had to put on a brave face. I was from Brooklyn. He wouldn’t see how weak I felt inside.

“Imogen? Who’s at the door, honey?” Mom asked from the kitchen.

“Nobody!” I shouted back, keeping my suspicious gaze on Beckett. “Again, what do you want?”

“To talk,” he stated, as though this were obvious.

“Oh, really? Is that what you want to do? I didn’t know you were capable of having a normal conversation without turning it into a misogynistic rant.”

“Imogen, come on,” Beckett sighed, pushing the disheveled brown hair away from his face. “I’m not here to fight with you.”

I rolled my eyes. “No, you’re here to try and convince me to get back together. Which is never going to happen.”

He stared at the floor for a moment, then his icy blue eyes flicked up to mine. “I miss you.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I groaned. “Just go, okay? Whatever you’re trying to do, it’s not gonna work.”

Before he could think up some other bullshit to say to me, I shut the door and locked it. With nothing supporting me, I collapsed against the door and slid to the ground, my breath coming out in heavy, shuddering gasps. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to calm down. The fact that Beckett could still reduce me to this after saying almost nothing was pathetic. But I’d never let him see it, because then he’d know that he won.

“Imogen, what’s wrong?”

I blinked up at Mom, taking in her concerned expression. She crouched down in front of me, placing a hand on my forearm. “Nothing,” I sighed. “I’m fine.”

“Who was at the door?”

“Nobody,” I answered. Mom had such a high opinion of Beckett, and since I’d never told her what really happened between us, it would be even harder for her to comprehend his sudden change in character after all this time. And if I did tell her, I suspected that she would say I was overreacting.

Once I’d showered and dressed, I slipped on my boots and told Mom I’d be back in a few hours. At her suggestion, we were going to MoMA later. But I needed to clear my head of all things Beckett, and I couldn’t do that with her vacuuming the apartment.

“Is that my coat?”

One hand on the doorknob, I turned around with a sheepish expression. “I like the pockets.”

“It’s enormous on you, honey,” informed Mom, her eyebrows raised. “You’re practically drowning in it.”

I pulled the slate grey fabric closer to my body defensively. It only fit properly if I wore a thick sweater underneath, but the wool was usually enough to keep me warm. I wondered absently if it would fit Harry, deciding that the sleeves would still be too short for his monkey arms.

“Well, I’m not out to impress anyone.”

Mom looked a little disenchanted at that, but my mood was already sour without her offhand comments about an oversized coat. I raised my fingers and waved with very little enthusiasm, then took my leave.

I had thought about calling up one of my friends at Columbia, but as I hadn’t really kept in touch with anyone after moving to London, I didn’t know who to contact. The friends I’d made were more acquaintances, anyway, since I’d spent most of my spare time in first year with Beckett.

There wasn’t any snow just yet, but Mom said that December had been unseasonably warm so far. I’d only made it outside the building when I spotted him loitering next to an off-duty taxi. I immediately turned and started in the opposite direction, but we’d made eye contact, so I knew he was likely to follow.

“Don’t you know how to take a hint?” I snapped, when Beckett’s strides had fallen in step with mine.

“Apparently not,” he replied easily.

I curled my hands into fists inside the massive pockets of my coat. “I really don’t want to deal with this today.”

“Then when? Should I come back tomorrow?”

“Preferably never. But I seem to remember telling you that already, and yet here you are.”

“I think we need to figure out what went wrong between us,” Beckett said, ignoring the glare I was sending in his direction. “I don’t want this to be it. I can’t accept that reality.”

When I left the apartment, I didn’t have a destination in mind. But now that I was outside, walking the familiar streets, I knew where I wanted to go. Now if only Beckett would kindly fuck off and let me go about my day in peace.

“You’re going to have to, because if I haven’t made it clear already, there is no future where you and I are a ‘we.’ It’s just not going to happen.”

“Why do you get to choose?”

I stopped in my tracks, gaping at him in astonishment. “The only choice I ever made in our relationship was to end it. Everything else was you. Everything that went wrong was because of you, because you couldn’t let somebody else make the decisions.”

It felt like that last fight all over again. The same words were coming out of my mouth and out of his, but I was the only one that noticed. Beckett was acting as though that conversation had never happened, and I constantly wished that I could forget it.

“You don’t think that,” Beckett said, as if saying it would make it true. “You can’t.”

“Yeah, well, I do.”

We stopped at a crosswalk, and I was rummaging through my purse for the few American dollars I’d stolen off of the kitchen counter — I needed to get to an ATM, all I had in my wallet was a ten pound note and that wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I wanted to get a blueberry muffin from the bakery a few blocks down from the apartment before continuing to my actual destination, and I’d decided that Beckett could follow me all he wanted, I wasn’t going to keep having the same argument with him over and over again.

My fingertips brushed against my phone and I realized with a start that it was ringing. The traffic didn’t help much to hear the off-kilter tune that made up my ringtone. With a frown I pulled it out, figuring it was Mom, but I was surprised to see Harry’s name and photograph plastered across the screen.

It was a selfie he’d texted me while in New York waiting to go onstage for Good Morning America, with Niall in the background puffing out his cheeks like a squirrel. Harry, in comparison, was grinning like an idiot — in regard to the fact that he was in my hometown and I wasn’t.

“I was gonna ask you about that,” Beckett said, glancing over at my phone. I quickly ignored the call, shooting a glare in Beckett’s direction. The light had changed by now, and I hurried across the street in an effort to lose him.

But, despite the fact that he was only a few inches taller than me, Beckett walked fast.

When I got to the bakery, I could tell that Beckett was getting ready for round three. Since he clearly wasn’t taking the hint, I had to think quickly.

“Look,” I started, rounding on him on the sidewalk outside the bakery. My phone was ringing again — Harry, who I knew would keep on calling until I picked up or he got distracted — and Beckett glanced at it, brows furrowing.

“Did you think I would sell you out?” he asked suddenly, interrupting me before I could start explaining chemistry to him, and why it was scientifically impossible for us to get back together.

“What?” I said, as Harry’s call went to voicemail. It took maybe three seconds for my phone to start going crazy, several texts appearing in succession. As the rectangular object was still in my hand, the screen facing upward, all of Harry’s texts were there for the world to see.

Imogen

Imogen

Pick upppppppppppp

Answer your phone now

Pleaseeeee

“You didn’t want to tell me,” Beckett continued, his eyes flicking between my phone and my face and back again. “Because you thought I would be mad that you’ve moved on, and do something to hurt you. Ruin your life.”

I need you right now I’m going to die of boredom

Beckett choked out a laugh. “It doesn’t matter how much you loved me once, I’ll never be Harry Styles, right?”

“You think I’m—“ I started, but realized that I could use this misunderstanding to my advantage. “Are you going to tell anyone?”

“What would be the point? How would I benefit from selling you out to the media? I don’t want you to hate me, Imogen, that’s what I’ve been trying to prove to you. I want you back, and if I’m ever going to do that, it’s not like this.”

Then he turned on his heel and strode off down the street, head hanging. I had to stare after him until he’d disappeared around the corner because I couldn’t quite believe that Beckett had finally given up — for now, at least. I wondered if it were anyone else that had called, like Matt, if Beckett would’ve drawn the same conclusion. My guess was that he wouldn’t, because people tended to jump to conclusions when celebrities were involved. Why would Harry Styles want to have lunch with me? Or call because he was bored? We had to be dating, obviously, because what female was actually friends with Harry? Thanks to his track record, not many.

For the first time (and probably the last), I was actually grateful for Harry’s sordid reputation when it came to women. Even if Beckett thought we were nothing more than a fling, at least my connection with Harry had made him go away.

While I waited in line to get my muffin, I typed out a reply to Harry.

What do you want

He must have had his phone in hand, because there was no way he could reply so fast without seeing my message the second it delivered.

Boreeeedddddd

I’m on the other side of the Atlantic. Figure out your own problems.

Skype?

Not at home rn. Maybe later. I’m sure my Mom wants to meet you.

Okayyy

I left it at that, figuring Harry could go and bother one of his other friends. Once I got my muffin, I headed for the nearest subway station to catch the B line into the city. The trip to Columbia was almost an hour, but I needed the time on the train to think.

Even though I hadn’t made any close friends in my year at Columbia, there was a particular professor that had become something of a mentor outside the classroom. She’d advised on my decision to move to London to continue my education in a more specialized program, rather than studying plain old Physics (or Chemistry, which had also been floating around my head at that time) here in New York. She knew that my motivation to move was fifty percent personal and fifty percent academic. She was probably the only person who knew everything, from my perspective at least, other than Beckett and I.

I felt bad about not keeping in better touch with her after moving to London, as we’d kept pretty consistent correspondence in the spring and summer while I went through the late application process with multiple schools throughout the UK. But as I adjusted to my new life, I started to prioritize those who were right in front of me, rather than the people I’d left behind in the States.

One long train ride and a few blocks later, I was headed into the building where Dr. Gustavson’s office was located. I hoped that she still kept winter hours, and that her schedule was the same as last year. She’d told me once that she practically lived in her office, especially after exam season and all her time was spent marking.

The door to her office was cracked open, and I raised my fist to knock before poking my head in. Dr. Gustavson looked up from the stack of papers on her desk, her bespectacled eyes narrowing.

“Can I come in?” I asked, smiling hopefully.

“Imogen, is that you?” she asked, sliding the reading glasses into her greying hair. “Yes! Come in, come in!”

I grinned and entered the office fully, taking a second to admire the books and plaques on the walls before dropping into one of the comfortable leather chairs in front of her desk. “How’s it hanging, Dr. G?”

Dr. Gustavson raised an eyebrow. “How someone as intelligent as you speaks in such a lowbrow fashion I will never understand.”

“You know I hate it when people find out I’m smart,” I reminded her. Dr. Gustavson nodded, setting down her red pen. “They treat you differently. Just because I know Newton’s Laws of Motion, suddenly I’m an alien to them.”

“A lot of people know Newton’s Laws of Motion,” was her reply.

“I know one person outside of my program who might have heard of them.”

“Then you’re spending time with the wrong people, Imogen.”

It was my turn to arch an eyebrow in dissatisfaction. “Are you telling me to ditch all my friends for the nerds in Astrophysics?”

She shrugged. “If they understand you better than those outside your program, why wouldn’t you want to be friends with them?”

“Because more than half of the program is guys who spend their weekends playing D&D and marathoning Doctor Who.”

Dr. Gustavson sighed. “You’re a very judgemental person.”

“I call it how I see it,” I told her, adjusting my position in the chair so that one leg was tucked beneath me. “Anyway, I didn’t come here to complain about the weird kids in Astrophysics. I wanted to ask for your advice.”

“Is it school related?”

“Not really.”

She folded her hands atop the exam she’d been marking when I arrived. “Alright. I don’t think I’ll be of much help, but you’re welcome to try.”

I wanted to explain to her that she was of the utmost help. Her brain worked very similarly to mine (with the exception of vocabulary use) and her experience helped see solutions where my mind could not, but the connections she made were ones that I could grasp and understand. This was where my mother often failed in my adolescent years; despite her advice being largely helpful, her approach wasn’t one I comprehended.

But that would waste time that neither of us had, so I got to the point.

“Beckett — my ex-boyfriend, you know, the one who—“

“I remember him quite vividly, despite never meeting him,” she interrupted.

“Right. Anyway, he showed up at my door this morning. I didn’t want to see him ever again, so you can imagine what it was like having him stand right in front of me. The worst part was that he acted as though our break-up hadn’t been a big deal, like us getting back together was obviously going to happen. I tried telling him it wasn’t, but he must have developed selective hearing or something.

“So I was about to make up some bullshit about chemistry and talk really complicated in hopes that he’d just piss off already, but then my phone rang. There’s this guy that I’ve been hanging out with, and we’re strictly friends, but Beckett got the idea that I was dating this guy. And the guy, Harry, kept on calling and texting. It was just because he’s impatient and likes to be annoying, but Beckett didn’t know that. I figured I’d let Beckett think I was dating Harry, even though I’m not, because it made him back off. Was that the right thing to do?”

I doubted Dr. Gustavson knew who Harry Styles was, so I left that bit out. But Harry being a celebrity did have a lot to do with it, because if Beckett did tell somebody that we were together there would be a shitstorm to deal with. And I didn’t need anymore glares and dubious looks from the students (or, much worse, the professors) in the Astrophysics program. Being associated with Harry more than I already was wasn’t exactly going to do wonders for my future career in the scientific world.

“If he found out you were lying, what do you think would happen?”

Beckett only had to Google ‘Harry Styles’ to find out he’d been with Darcy and probably a few other girls since we were photographed together, and then he’d know I let him believe a lie.

“He’d be mad.”

“The same kind you experienced before?”

I shrugged to hide the anxiety blossoming in the pit of my stomach. “Maybe. I don’t know. Hopefully I’ll be back in London by then, where he can’t get to me.”

Dr. Gustavson sat in contemplation for a few minutes, working the muscles in her jaw. “There must be something else bothering you about it,” she said, finally. “You’ve left something out, yes?”

“Uh,” I stammered, only confirming what she believed. “Harry’s not exactly some random guy I started hanging out with. Beckett sort of knows who he is.”

“They’ve met before?”

“No, not in person. I don’t know, I think he took his sister to a concert once, but—“ I stopped short, looking at her helplessly.

My former professor was frowning. “I don’t understand.”

“Ever heard of One Direction?” I asked, my voice strained.

“My daughter listens to them,” Dr. Gustavson nodded. “What does this have to — oh. I see.”

I didn’t even try to hide my surprise. “You do?”

“One of them is called Harry, yes?” she asked, and I nodded. “That complicates things.”

“Yep.”

“It may be best to tell Beckett the truth. Who knows what someone like him would do in these circumstances.”

“He said it wouldn’t benefit him to tell anyone, because I would be upset if he did.”

“So you don’t think he’ll try and sell the information?”

“Well, it’s not true anyway, so,” I shrugged. “I didn’t even tell him it was, really. I just sort of…let him think he was right.”

Dr. Gustavson pulled her reading glasses off the top of her head, methodically wiping the lenses. “Have you spoken to, ah, Harry about this?”

“No, why?”

She glanced up at me. “Well, if he’s alright with Beckett thinking you two are together, then that would make things less worrisome, yes?”

“Harry doesn’t know about Beckett.”

“You don’t have to be specific,” she replied, her eyes softening. Dr. Gustavson was aware that she was the only person who knew, I’d told her as much. She often encouraged me to open up to Mom, but I could never bring myself to do it. “Just tell him you ran into an ex-boyfriend you’d rather not reconnect with, and it seemed like an easy way out.”

“I guess I can try.”

“I suggest you do,” she said with a firm nod. “Now, I hate to kick you out, but I have a ton of exams left to mark.”

“Okay, yeah,” I said, quickly getting to my feet. “Thanks, Dr. G.”

“Not a problem, Imogen. Don’t hesitate to call me once in a while, yes? You still have my number?”

“Sure thing. See you around,” I waved over my shoulder, ducking out of the office.

I didn’t feel all that reassured that I’d done the right thing, letting Beckett think I was dating Harry. When I imagined the conversation where I explained it to Harry, I only saw him asking more questions. I was a hundred percent certain he would want to know who Beckett was and why I didn’t want him in my life. If I couldn’t even say those things to my own mother, how was I supposed to tell Harry about them?