Trashley: Twenty-One

People change

It was our first night in New York City, and we ended up getting a room in the Citizen Hotel, which was infinitely better than the Dream. We were exhausted from traveling, so I ordered Two Boots pizza, and we went to bed early.

My city. My buildings. *Gollum voice* My precious.

Every time I visit New York, I revert to the city girl I was before moving to Los Angeles. New York Lauren was always dressed well in case I ran into somebody important or went viral for getting pushed onto the Subway rails.

New York Lauren. Who is she?

I got up early because there’s nothing like the energy of a New York morning. It was Sunday, so the city wasn’t filled with people going to work. It was filled with runners, families going to church and brunch— (chunch?), and my personal favorite, walk-of-shamers heading back home.

We walked to Soho and grabbed coffee at a truck parked off Green Street. I took a little video I was going to post on my Instagram, letting people know to expect NYC content for the next week.

Ashley wanted to stop at a Starbucks and get a chai tea latte, so we did. Then we walked up to Fourteenth Street so we could get a mani/pedi at my old place, Spring Nail Beauty Spa. While we were in the massage chairs I took the time to post my coffee truck video to my Instagram story.

Spring Nail Beauty Spa.

Within two seconds of posting it, the “secret” account that belonged to Ashley’s ex-wife had seen it, along with Ashley’s reflection in the window. Ashley’s Facetime buzzed one second after that. She picked up her phone and was about to send it to voicemail until I chimed in.

“You should take it, it might be important about the kids,” I said, encouraging her to be a better parent.

Ashley thought for a second and then positioned herself in a way that would make it look like she wasn’t in a spa. She turned off her massage chair to make it look like she was in a regular chair. And she made sure I wasn’t in view at all. I could’ve fucked up her life right then by grabbing the phone and introducing myself. I knew her ex-wife knew me, and I knew her, and I was sure we both craved answers. Ashley swiped open the call and frantically clicked the volume button all the way down. But I heard Cecelia’s voice before it went completely mute. “There’s Mommy, in New York City and not Detroit…”

Ashley hung up and turned to me in a flash of panic. Her eyes grew ten sizes.

“She told me I should kill myself, that the world would be a better place if I were dead!”

“What?” I said, “She said that just now? I didn’t hear any of that.” Had I missed something? I’d paid close attention to the call because I thought it would piece together more of the mystery. Besides, Ashley hadn’t even been on the phone long enough for her to say that. And she’d clicked the volume all the way down. Was she lip-reading?

“I’m so abused,” Ashley said, with giant tears forming in the corners of her eyes. Her mood dropped, and dammit, this mood shift might ruin the day.

“She says I’m a bad mom. But I’m not. I’m a good Mom!”

I knew little about her parenting style other than the fact that she barely talked about her children or saw them. So maybe she was a good parent when she was with them, but I had yet to see it.

We walked to Chelsea Market after the spa, and Ashley moped ten steps behind me. I’m a fast walker because that’s how New York City works— if even one person walks too slow, it throws off the balance of the entire city and chaos ensues for the next twenty-four hours. Oooh, I could’ve murdered her. But, she was having a sad day, and I didn’t want to say or do anything that would upset her more. She followed me around Anthropologie while I admired jackets, and waited with her head down at the entrance to a bookstore while I bought a copy of The Fran Leibowitz Reader. God, what would Fran do? She wouldn’t put up with this shit.

After Chelsea Market, we walked to the theater district without speaking. It was Hamilton day, and we were seeing the Matinee. We arrived at the theater at two-thirty but still had half an hour to kill, so we went to the Hamilton gift shop across the street, where I encouraged Ashley to buy something cute for her children. She picked up an Angelica Schuyler bobblehead and an infant-sized onesie that said “Work!” Her credit card went through and that seemed to help better her mood.

We got to the theater, loaded up on wine, and sat in our seats. My aunt would be joining us, but since she doesn’t respect anyone’s time but her own, she showed up after the first two songs. Right on time.

Alexander Hamilton had a torrid affair, and he wrote it down right there: HIGHLIGHTS!

I introduced Ashley to my aunt during intermission, and after the show, we all walked down to Tavern On Jane to have dinner with my uncle.

At dinner, my uncle had a million questions for Ashley about Physics and MIT. He had been a Rocket Scientist before getting into finance in New York. “What area did you study? Are you familiar with Einstein’s photoelectric effect? What are your thoughts on Karl Schwarzschild’s theory of Black Holes?” My uncle was in his element. And as far as I could tell, Ashley was answering him confidently.

“There’s more to me than being a Physicist, you know,” Ashley said, as if my uncle cared about anything other than her scientific knowledge. I embarrassingly laughed and shook my head, I took a big gulp of my dirty martini and motioned to the waitress that I desperately needed another.

My Aunt excused herself from dinner and grabbed a pack of cigarettes from her purse. “I’ll join you,” I said, getting up and leaving Ashley alone with my Uncle. I could feel her eyes burning lasers through my back as I walked away.

I didn’t smoke anymore, but the occasional cigarette here and there wasn’t going to harm anybody. We lit up once we were outside, and I asked my Aunt what she thought of Ashley.

“Well, Lauren, does she always talk like that?”

“What do you mean? How’s she talking?”

“I mean, does she always string together big words that make it sound like she’s smart but she’s really blowing smoke up people’s asses?”

My Aunt was a cynical New Yorker. She had seen it all and prided herself on figuring people out. She used to own a mystery book store on Greenwich Avenue called Partners & Crime, and she’s better read than anybody I have ever known. She knew every word in the dictionary, and that’s probably why she called Ashley out for sounding smart when she was talking nonsense.

“I honestly don’t know what she’s talking about most of the time,” I said while taking a drag, “And yeah, there’s something off.” I said as I exhaled. “And I’m going to find out.”

“Let me know if you need a co-detective,” my Aunt said.

“I will,” not. I had to go on this journey myself. I was determined to find out the truth about Ashley and her family, no matter how long it took.

I was patient.

My Aunt and I finished up our smokes, thanked my uncle for dinner, and Ashley and I walked back to the hotel. I missed walking. I would easily walk eight miles a day when I lived in the city. And Ashley was actually keeping pace with me, so I didn’t get sidewalk rage.

We’d been on the move all day besides the show and dinner, and I hadn’t been paying much attention to my phone. I was on vacation, after all. If anyone needed me, they’d have to do a seance to summon me.

I washed my face and brushed my teeth once we were back in the hotel. I was going to post some more New York videos to my story. When I opened my phone I saw I’d had some messages from a woman I had never seen or heard of before. I was hoping it was spam and nothing related to Ashley. When I opened the message my stomach ate itself. My anxiety shot through the top of the hotel and my heart beat so fast it could’ve sent me to an early grave.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch.

“What? What’s wrong?” Ashley asked, seeing the happiness drain from my body.

“Who is this woman?” I held up my phone and showed it to Ashley.

“I… I… I don’t know her,” Ashley said.

“She says you were her abuser,” that was a pretty serious allegation and one I did not take lightly. I knew Ashley was volatile and a liar, but an abuser?

“People change,” Ashley whispered.

“What was that? Did you say people change?” I said, not letting the comment go. “So you do know her.”