Trashley: Twenty-Three

Alpha Gay

It was our second night in New York, and Ashley was coming down from another epic meltdown. This one started after she learned a woman had reached out to me on Twitter, claiming Ashley was her abuser. Ashley lost it when I asked who this woman was and begged me to block her. But I didn’t. I didn’t even know if you could block someone on LinkedIn. The only people I blocked were Cecelia and her friends.

I did what I did when Ashley’s ex-wife messaged me — I read the messages and confronted Ashley, and Ashley did what she always did: meltdown and deny everything. I still had no idea whether these women were warning me or fucking with me, especially since both Ashley and her mom said these women were after Ashley’s money and hellbent on making her life miserable.

While Ashley was in the shower, I secretly glanced at her phone screen. It lit up with texts from Cecelia. What was she texting about? The kids? Our New York trip? Being blocked from my Instagram? Or was she a scorned ex who was mad that Ashley had moved on? My head was rattling from the percussive beat of Ashley’s screams, like the world’s worst sound bath. My brain raced with thoughts of Cecelia and this new mystery woman: I had to get to the bottom of it. I felt bad I had blocked Cecelia and her friends on Instagram. I didn’t want to, but it was either that or deal with Ashley’s mood swings.

The next morning, Ashley was in a good mood. Thank. Fucking. God.