18-She punched me

I try to fill my lungs with the warm air of City Hall Park, but I feel suffocating right now and my eyes pinch as if I'm about to cry, even as I try to restrain myself and hurry to the sidewalk.

That's why I don't have many friends ...

Everyone seems to have the perfect life that I don't have and they blame me like Meredith just did: she literally slammed me in the face of being wanted by Ethan, while I'm the one hated by men, the spoiled and annoying woman that no one would want to have by his side!

I'm the one who punches when she doesn't know how to escape ...

I begin to walk home, taking advantage of the fact that I have not brought the car to take a walk and try to sort out the mess I have in my head, even if it is difficult for me.

I convince myself that Ethan will no longer be a problem: just avoid him or treat him badly every time he tries to get close, while Meredith will never know that he is making fun of her. She will never know about the kiss he gave me, probably before doing the same with her.

I lift my head up to force a smile when the sun hits my eyes, but not even a beautiful day like this can lift my spirits.

My dad and Jack are another mess I have to hurry to sort out, even though I don't have the courage to spend time with my ex at all, especially after kissing him like that in front of my roommate.

I don't know what he's thinking right now and I don't want to know, but I can't have evidence against him if I don't spend more time with Jack.

The first thing that comes to mind is the fact that my birthday is approaching, but I know Meredith would hate me if I went out with him.

My friend and I were born on the same day and have always celebrated together, just me and her, and Samantha sometimes, even though she is so busy every year that sometimes she just finds time to send us birthday wishes over the phone.

I bite my lip hard, thinking of another solution to get closer to Jack, possibly before my dad comes to find out he showed up.

***

Ethan

"You could get her drunk and then ..." -Ian leaves the sentence hanging, trying to suggest a solution to take Valerie's virginity away, but by the expression he assumes I understand that he doesn't really want me to do it.

I ignore his expression, walking silently into my office with him behind me, as I think about his words and how absurd they are.

I've never seen Valerie touch alcohol and I don't think she'll start drinking for me:

"She punched me." - I turn slightly on his side to remind him and make him understand that it is not easy to deceive that woman.

Fuck! I felt like I had a man in front of me and I was ready to jump on her in anger last night, but she fled before I could make sure I hadn't gone blind.

I pull the handle down at the exact moment when Ian tries to hide a smile, making my jaw clench, but I don't have time to catch it as I open the door and turn my eyes to the art critic already sitting in my office, in the company of my secretary, so distracted by her ass that I have to clear my throat to get his attention.

I give him a pat on the back of the head, clicking my tongue when he shows a perverse smile: we know each other so well now that he knows he doesn't have to pretend in front of me, but I know that my answering machine always feels uncomfortable because of him, so I invite her to go out so as not to distract my 50-year-old colleague and pedophile man, while I let Ian listen to the conversation, even if he doesn't care about art and business.

"My man, I took a look at your exhibition." - he goes straight to the point, making me nod as I light a cigarette to bring it between my lips.

I rest both elbows on the desk, then let my back adhere to the chair and sit down:

"So?" - I scrutinize him carefully with my eyes. I wouldn't even let him into my office if it weren't for his prestige and the influence he has in New York newspapers.

He has never complained about my projects, he has always given five stars to the exhibitions I have organized so far, but when I hear him sigh and cross his fingers on the table, I tilt my head to better see his expression beyond the smoke that blows. my lips.

"Let's face it, Ethan." - his words do not convince me and make me understand that there is something wrong, but I decide to let it finish:

"That thing is missing." - I flare my nostrils at his words, while I feel the muscles of my neck harden, but I try not to show it, just emitting a cloud of smoke again and trying to hold back my killer instinct:

"What ... what is missing?" - my voice comes out lower than usual, not understanding what made him change his mind, while I squeeze the end of the cigarette between my fingers.

"Instinct!" - he exclaims with a thoughtful expression, trying to make me understand what not even he knows he wants:

"Chaos, Ethan ..." - he brings a hand under his chin to curl the tip of his thick beard , to then whisper again, as if he were an artist who understands art more than me:

"Spontaneity."

I give him a long, knowing look as I nod at his words, but inside I feel the blood boiling in my veins to the point that I can't help but get up from my chair and turn my back on both of them.

"This museum has a long history behind it and collaborates with the best known artists ..." - he resumes speaking with an almost consoling tone, but I'm afraid that if I look him in the face I won't be able to hold back my anger.

"But there are young talents out there who can leave us breathless." - he concludes, as I stand in front of the window looking down at the crowded streets of New York and mentally killing the art critic, and then dwell on my faded reflection on the window pane, making a grimace as my eyes fall back on the light bruise that crosses my cheekbone.

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