The Infamous Ellen James(38)

Amy: Emergency. Call me back ASAP. Lizzy is here. She's shitfaced and crying.



What in the hell? Lizzy? My sister Lizzy?

I call Amy and I'm surprised to find out that my sister Lizzy showed up at our apartment with several suitcases in tow, saying she left her husband. Apparently she's drunk and sobbing. My heart breaks for her, but I'm not going to lie, I'm pretty pissed she decided to show up on this night of all nights.

And why is she running to me?

The last time I spoke with her was weeks ago. I tell Amy that I'll be home shortly and to keep Lizzy away from our liquor cabinet, because it's one thing to ruin your sister's chance of getting dicked by a hot, sexy guy, but it's a whole other thing to drink her alcohol supply. Alcohol that I'm most likely going to need tonight…

I also think my sister just gave the greatest unintentional cock-blocking performance of all time. She's now the MVC. Most valuable cock-blocker.

As Trent and I head out of his apartment, I think I can quietly hear my vagina crying as she puts Celine Dion on her iPod and calls it a night.





Chapter Sixteen



“Once you hit the age of fourteen, you should not have a day-of-the-week reminder on your snatch.”



Trent and I walk into my apartment to find an annoyed Amy and extremely drunk Lizzy. I don't recall a time where I have ever witnessed my older sister this intoxicated. She puts new meaning to the term intoxication. Her bags are strewn across my apartment as she rummages through her largest suitcase, throwing random items of clothing out onto the living room carpet. She's disheveled and her lack of clothing has me slightly concerned about what I'm going to face tonight—and more importantly, for the next few weeks.

Lizzy's auburn hair is stacked in a messy bun on her head, and her mascara seems to be attempting to make a great escape to her neck. She's stumbling around in an old t-shirt, and her pants have yet to make an appearance to this little party.

Her white cotton panties say “Thursday” across the front. Unfortunately, it's not Thursday. It's actually Friday, and the Lizzy I know would have never let a travesty like this occur. She's normally organized and has every detail planned to perfection, including her day-of-the-week underwear, which I'm a little shocked to see she still wears. I feel like once you enter adulthood, day-of-the-week panties should be pulled from your wardrobe. Lizzy is thirty-four years old. I'm pretty sure she doesn't need a reminder on her snatch to figure out what day of the week it is.

“Hey! It's my sister! My Ellie Jelly Belly!” Lizzy nearly tackles me in the kitchen with a sloppy hug.

“Hi, Lizzy. I'm a little surprised to see your face tonight.”

I attempt to disentangle myself from her vice-like grip around my neck. I settle myself against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest. Trent is sitting across from me at my kitchen table. He's leaned back in the chair, hands behind his head, and a perfect picture of relaxation. I'm glad someone is relaxed.

I, on the other hand, am far from relaxed. I've got a drunken sister who resembles a hobo traipsing around my apartment like she owns the joint, and my juice-box is pretty angry she didn't receive a good screwing tonight.

“I fucking hate my husband. Matt Montgomery 'the third,'” She attempts to use finger quotes to accentuate her comment. “He's a tool. A stuck-up momma's boy.” I'm going to have to work with her on better insults. Later of course, once she's sober enough to comprehend English.

“I get that you're pissed at Matt, but what made you come all the way to Charlotte? Not that I'm not thrilled to see you, but this seems a little out of the ordinary for the Lizzy I know.”

I need to figure out what in the hell has caused my sister to drive over seven hours and throw herself on my doorstep. The girl that is stumbling around in front of me is a chick I've never met. This isn't Lizzy, not by a long shot. Lizzy is prissy and conservative, and she always has everything in its perfect little place. This chick is drunk and obnoxious, and she has a serious issue with wearing pants.

“He doesn't care about me. He cares about his lame job and stupid car and golf clubs,” she slurs out, before opening the fridge in search of something, most likely more booze.

“Does Matt know you left him, Lizzy?” I'm obviously getting now where fast with this conversation tonight. She's too befuddled to give me an inkling of an idea of what caused her to drive to Charlotte and unload this shit storm on my doorstep.

“Nope.” She pops the 'p' loudly with her lips and then takes a seat next to Trent, giving him an interesting facial expression I can't really distinguish. I'm thinking it might be an attempt to be sexy, but I'm not really sure.

“What about Mom and Dad? Do they know you're here?”