Trashley: Twenty-Six

Forgiveness?

After Ashley removed me as a driver from the car we had agreed to share until my new Tesla arrived in January, I rode to Joshua Tree with my neighbor, Kirsten. I knew there’d be hell to pay when I told Ashley I was going to the desert with her mortal enemy, but I didn’t think she’d lock me out of her car. It felt like she was playing a game of limbo where she would stoop to a new level of petty every time the bar dropped. And when I thought she couldn’t possibly go any lower, she did. I was surprised she was that flexible.

As soon as we got to Joshua Tree, I consciously uncoupled from my phone for the afternoon because I was sick of wasting my time and energy on Ashley. Plus, Joshua Tree is my happy place, and when I’m there, I become one with the desert. I’d rather step barefoot on a cholla cactus than be on the receiving end of an Ashley tantrum.

Joshua Tree. When you're here, you're queer.

When I returned to my phone a few hours later, I was shocked to see a text from Ashley with an actual, dare I say, apology. I mentally scrubbed through our entire relationship and couldn’t find a single time she apologized. 

The Ashley I knew would flip things around, become defensive, yell and scream, and then make me apologize for something I didn’t do. I wondered if Ashley had killed off that version of herself— or at least retired her jersey.

Did you guys here the news? My happiness is SO important to her.

I’ve never been one to hold a grudge, although I do have a short list of people I will destroy in this lifetime. I hated that she had locked me out of her car, but what was I going to do, stay mad about it forever? This apology was a big step for Ashley. It signaled growth and maturity and a level of self-awareness I thought she was incapable of. Goddammit, she deserved a reward for doing the right thing for once, and that reward would be me forgiving her for trying to sabotage my trip to Joshua Tree. And magically, we returned to our regularly scheduled relationship.

*Hamilton chorus* Forgiveness

While Ashley was in Minnesota, she told me Cecelia was not allowed in the house and had to stay across the street at a neighbor's place. They were only allowed to communicate through their lawyers and only if it was about the kids. It sounded messy, and I was relieved I had never married and especially grateful I never had to co-parent kids with someone I loathed. By the time Ashley came into my life, I had already discovered the key to happiness: being gay, traveling, money, and dogs.

Even though I have always been very open about not wanting children, I did want to know more about Ashley’s. Especially since she was starting a parenting plan to visit them every month.

“I wish you would open up more about the kids,” I told Ashley when she Facetimed me in Joshua Tree one morning. “You could even just send pictures here and there so I can have a mental image of who they are when I think of you as a parent.”

“Really? I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” Ashley said. “The kids would love you. You’d be such a good mom.” I could hear her children squealing in the background. 

“Okay, slow down. I could see my role as more of a cool gay aunt, like how I am to my nieces and nephews… I’m not into—” One of the kids started clanging on a metal bowl with what sounded like a jackhammer, “—the noise.”

Ashley walked through her old house while we talked. It was cute. There was a fireplace with exposed brick painted white and books and plants on every shelf. I was impressed by Cecelia’s green thumb, especially for keeping her plants thriving through the cold Minnesota winters. Having healthy plants in LA is practically cheating. You don’t need to do much to keep them happy, just put them near a window and tell them they’re pretty now and then.

I knew Cecelia and I were supposed to hate each other, but in an alternate reality, we were probably in a book club together and went to the nursery on Sundays to get a quick hit of oxygen before hitting up the local farmers’ market and coming home with a bouquet of sunflowers.

“Come here, come say hi to Mommy’s best friend, Lauren,” Ashley said as she put the Facetime in front of her daughter. “Can you say hi, Lauren!”

I was not expecting this. I shot up in bed. A small head filled my screen. The tiny stranger blinked her big eyes. She looked like Bambi. And I knew people would pay a lot of money for her eyelashes. Her hair was pulled up in a mess of curls. She smiled, revealing the most adorable set of baby teeth.

“Hi wawwan,” the cute little child said.

Ouch? What was this feeling? I felt my heart melt like butter in a microwave. 

Was I having a heart attack? A stroke? Was this child casting a spell on me?

“Hi, are you having fun with Mommy?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “Ashwee.”

“That’s not what you call me. You call me Mommy.” Ashley corrected her with a slight harshness in her tone.

Her daughter wore a purple dress ten sizes too large for her tiny frame. “Are you dressed like a Princess?” I asked.

“Yesh.”

“Can I see you do a twirl like a Princess?”

Ashley’s daughter stood in the living room and twirled around in her dress while looking at the floor. She didn’t stop—she must have twirled twenty times.

“Wow, you’re gonna get dizzy!” I said.

She fell to the floor, laughing.

I heard a door creak open nearby, and Ashley’s eyes darted quickly in that direction. She hung up. There was no goodbye, no explanation. 

Click.

I called back, but it went directly to voicemail. I sent her a text, but she didn’t respond. Weird—or was her behavior normalized by this point? It was hard to tell.

I went about my day, and Ashley called me that night from her rental car in Minnesota.

“What was that all about? Why’d you suddenly hang up on me? Who was at the door?”

“Did you post anything about going to Europe?” She asked.

“What? Why are you not answering my question? Who was at the door?”

“It was Cecelia. She thinks we’re going to Europe for Christmas, did you post anything about it on your social media?”

“Well, she’s right. We are going to Europe. But I didn’t post anything about it. That’s not my style.”

Ashley knew this about me. I’m someone who shows up in places with no warning. Like one day I’m at Malibu Sea Food eating steamed clams and watching humpback whales migrate to Mexico and the next day I’m in Paris, strolling down Rue de l’Abreuvoir, taking bites out of a freshly baked baguette. 

I learned how to travel from that sexy fox, Carmen San Diego.

“I don’t know how she knows then,” she said, “But she knows we are going to Slovenia and Switzerland, and she hid my passport.”

“When? What do you mean? Why does she have your passport?”

“She’s always going through my things!” 

My temples started to pound.

“I thought you said she wasn’t allowed at the house while you were there? So how could she go through your stuff?”

“She has to come over to breastfeed. She refuses to teach our baby to take a bottle. And she stole my passport. That’s a federal crime!”

“Are you sure you didn’t just misplace it?” I wasn’t used to being the voice of reason in a relationship. “Look around. And if you don’t find it, just get a new one, but you need to do it ASAP since we’re leaving in two months.”

“You’re right. I’ll look. I’m just feeling depressed without you, and I’m constantly dealing with Cecelia’s abuse. I can’t take it much longer.”

“Well, just hang in there. And remember, you’re there to see your kids, so just focus on them and let the other stuff go.”

We got off the phone, and I started making dinner. Thirty minutes later, Ashley sent me a video of her daughter eating a birthday cake. It was the cutest video I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen A LOT of baby goat videos. I sent it to my closest confidant, my sister Jordan. Showing her how cute Ashley’s daughter was.

I think a flesh-eating virus was getting to my brain because suddenly, for the first time in my life, I considered being open to having children.

Honk if you don't think pregnancy is for you.

That night, I sent Ashley a voice memo, letting her know I might be coming around to the idea of having children since hers were so adorable. I thought I knew myself, but I did not. Ashley told me that if I wanted to have a baby, she would pay for it. And we should set up an appointment with a fertility doctor. 

“OKAY,” I said. “LET’S HAVE A BABY.”

I knew I didn’t want to be with Ashley forever, but sometimes, she wasn’t so bad. And if she paid for me to have a baby, I’d expect her to leave, just like she did with her first set of children. And that would be fine; the problem would solve itself. Plus, I wasn’t too strongly attached to her. I knew that if she abandoned me with a child, I would be fine—probably better than if she had stayed.

That night, I checked Cecelia’s Twitter out of habit, almost forgetting she had blocked me. But there it was. I had full access again. I wondered why the change of heart. And then I wondered how she knew about our upcoming trip to Europe. She was clearly an ace detective, and I was determined to figure out how she knew about the trip since I never posted anything about it, and my sisters and some friends were the only people I told.

As I scrolled through Instagram, God came to me in a vision and said, “Cecelia knew about your European vacation by looking at the hashtags you recently followed. #LakeLucern #Swizerland #TrainsofEurope #LakeBled #fondueporn.” 

Ooh, she was good. She could probably start her own detective agency.