Trashley: Part Fifteen

The Ashley Update

Ashley had just deposited a check for thirty grand into my bank account for work I hadn’t done yet. I was both shocked and delighted. It’s almost like she knew how much I loved getting free money. I was still working on Grand Canaria, which I quickly discovered was the Bakersfield of Spain. Time passed differently on the island: I’d only been there two weeks but it felt like three.

Thinking about throwing myself overboard.

Everyone I worked with loved my Ashley stories. I started doing a bit at breakfast every morning called The Ashley Update, as though I was a news anchor — which I once was — so I nailed the voice.

Good morning, this is Lauren Reeves coming to you live from The Hotel Calderones with breaking news. Ashley has been spotted on the 105 Interstate in California for the third time in two days. When questioned by her girlfriend about why she keeps going to Inglewood, she responded she was going there to buy weed, even though she had just ordered four months’ worth through the Eaze app, raising suspicions about her drug use. More on this breaking story as it develops. In other news, an entire TV Production company has been stranded on an island with inedible food, which has been incredible for their weight loss goals, yet wreaking havoc on their health.

A crime producer I was working with had found major plot holes in Ashley’s life story, which, as a writer, I found offensive. If an editor got ahold of Ashley’s story it would be murdered by red ink. She had a messy life: a scorned ex, a family of grifters, a girlfriend who launched an international investigation against her, and something or someone in her past she was hiding.

Ashley called me one morning as I was waiting for the production vehicle to take me to set, “I just got called into work. I have to go to the office in Detroit tonight.”

“Wait, what? What’re you going to do with Perci?”

“I already talked to my family. I’m gonna drop him off with them and then head to the airport.”

Ashley acted like her boss sprung this trip on her at the last minute, but I wasn’t buying it. There was no way her work suddenly needed her to get on the next flight out. She was a corporate drone, not a smoke-jumper.

“Perci’s gonna be fine. My family loves him and will take good care of him,” she said.

Poor Perci, I hated how confused he must’ve been. He’s not a normal dog. If you look deep into his dark eyes, you can see a human child in there, a little girl who speaks fluent English and wants treats. I was annoyed. It was too hot for him in Bakersfield, and I was worried Ashley’s sisters would leave him outside for hours at a time. It was July, and one hundred twelve degrees every single day. Bakersfield was hotter than the surface of the sun, and my poor dog wasn’t built for those conditions. But there was nothing I could do except trust Ashley’s family would take care of him. Later that afternoon, Ashley sent me a video of her stepdad playing tug of war with Perci in the living room.

Okay, he’s fine.

When I woke up the following day, I opened my phone and saw I had a new Instagram follower. It was Ashley, the girl who famously said she had no social media. Her account was private, but she had about three hundred posts and a few hundred followers. I followed her back and was approved in less than ten seconds.

My phone buzzed, “Good morning, baby. I hope you slept well.”

“Was that your account that followed me on Instagram?” I asked.

“Yeah, I figured we should follow each other because I’m not trying to keep you a secret.” She said.

“What do you mean?” I didn’t know what she was referring to or why I would be kept a secret.

“I just want everyone to know how much I love you. I’m ready to show the world.”

“Okay, but you told me you didn’t have social media, so I don’t get it,” I said while scrolling through her account. “Your first post was in 2012, so you’ve had Instagram this entire time. Why did you tell me you didn’t?”

“God, this was a mistake. Just forget it. I have to go into strat-planning. Great, thanks for ruining my day before a really important meeting.” She hung up the phone.

She was such a cunt-twat when I called her out on things.

I left my hotel room and walked over to the COVID testing area. We weren’t allowed to get coffee until we passed a COVID test. God, I hated this place. As I waited for my results, I scrolled through Ashley’s Instagram. I saw a few photos from 2012- 2015 that were location-tagged at MIT. I’d never been to the MIT campus, but I’d been to Boston a few times. The photos Ashley posted did not look like Boston. If this was MIT, they need a go-fund-me. And the math didn’t add up, if she was tagging MIT in 2012, wasn’t that when she was allegedly doing her undergrad in mathematics at Denver University? And she told me she graduated from MIT in 2017, so did she go there for six years? Is that normal? I’m stupid, help. Plus, Instagram didn’t start allowing location tagging until 2014, so she must’ve tagged the campus later. Now, that was a story worthy of the daily Ashley Update.

Can someone send funds to MIT? I’m worried about them.

I ignored Ashley the rest of the day. I was busy, and there was a woman on set from Amsterdam I was flirting with. If Ashley knew about Merylin she would’ve shat herself into oblivion. Dating Ashley made me miss being single. I hated her temper and her insane ability to twist situations around to make herself the victim. She would’ve thrived in Trump’s White House.

Later that night, Ashley called to say she had deleted her Instagram since it was clearly causing issues. She said she had to hide her Instagram from Cecelia because being on her phone was a point of contention in their relationship. She had an excuse for everything. There were so many times I was over Ashley and the endless chaos that accompanied her, but then I’d forgive her and try to focus on the good times — like when we went camping and the thirty thousand dollar check.

The following day, Ashley texted to say her Grandfather was ill. He had been diagnosed with cancer, and she had to drive to Missouri immediately to be with her Mom. I remembered how broken up she had been when her Mom’s other set of parents died within a day of each other. And then I remembered what Ashley said to me the first time I went to Bakersfield: she told me not to mention her dead Grandparents and said her Mom wasn’t close to her real parents.

Oh no, Grandpappy is dying again.

Ashley called me from her hotel room when she got to Missouri. Her Mom was with her and we talked on speakerphone.

“I’m sorry about your Dad, Stacey,” I said, “How bad is it?”

“Thank you, honey. It’s bad. It’s really bad. I rushed out here the second I heard.” Stacey choked back tears. “When Ashley and I came out here in May for my Dad’s birthday, he was full of life. Seeing him now is devastating. He’s half the man he was only a few months ago.”

“Mom, did you remember to bring my MIT sweater you stole?” Ashley said, changing the subject.

“Huh? Yeah, I have it.” Stacey said.

Dying can be so sad.

Wait — Ashley had told me she went to Missouri in May to settle her dead Grandparents’ estate and to sign it over to her Uncle Melvin so he’d stop harassing her.

The gears in my brain started cranking: if Stacy wasn’t close to her biological parents, why was her dad’s cancer diagnosis so devastating? Why didn’t anyone in Ashley’s family ever talk about the two other grandparents dying? Did Ashley visit in May for Grandpa’s birthday and not to close the estate? Was Ashley lying about her grandparents dying? Did good old Grandpappy ruin Ashley’s lie by actually getting diagnosed with cancer? How many times is this poor old man gonna die? How many times is she going to kill him off?

There’s no way.

There’s no fucking way someone would do that.