“What are you talking about?”
“Phoebe and Martin have a room staked out for you to shower in. I don’t know what the clothes situation is, but I’m sure we’ll figure something out. Worst case scenario, you wear a hospital gown.” Smith gives me a gentle shove in the direction of the pirated hospital room. “I’m the lookout, but once your mom comes out, I’ve got to take over Nana Rosie’s spot and run interference. Shower quickly. Got it?”
I want to hug him, but I can’t. “Thank you.”
“Thank your fake boyfriend.” Smith nods in Martin’s direction. “It was his idea.”
I walk down the hall just fast enough to not draw attention to myself. The hospital is fairly quiet, and it looks like the staff is down to mostly a skeleton crew. Phoebe pulls me into the room as soon as I’m within arm’s reach.
“I’ve already got the water running,” Phoebe says. “The good news is that it’s warm. The bad news is that I could only find hand soap for you to wash with and a hand towel for you to dry off with.”
“What am I supposed to change into?” I pull off my cardigan. “Please don’t say a hospital gown.”
Phoebe points to the bed on the opposite side of the room, where Martin is standing in a pair of boxer briefs and an undershirt. The rest of his clothes are neatly folded at the foot of the bed. In any other situation, I’d be thrilled to see Martin half-naked, but my brain is quickly processing what half-naked Martin means in this context.
“Are you serious?”
“I’d give you my clothes, but I don’t want to miss my chance to see Dad. It’s either dress in drag or a hospital gown. Your choice.” She covers her nose. “God, you smell like shit.”
“Fine.” I sigh. “And thank you.”
“Thank Martin.” Phoebe holds open the bathroom door. “The guy is literally giving you the shirt off his back.”
I quickly close the door behind me, strip down to nothing, and step inside the shower. The showerhead barely reaches my forehead, and the water shoots out of it like a violent mist that stings my skin. My skin splotches an angry shade of red that’s only exacerbated when I start scrubbing with antibacterial hand soap. I’m in and out in a matter of minutes.
“Hey, it’s my turn to go see Dad,” Phoebe shouts from the other side of the door. “Martin’s on lookout and—”
“And what?” I fumble for the hand towel that’s meant to dry my entire body. “Phoebe, what’s going on?”
I can hear my sister talking to someone, but it’s not Martin. The other voice belongs to a woman. Shit, it’s probably a nurse. She’s probably wondering why the hell there’s a half-naked man in this room. Just wait until she realizes there’s a fully naked woman in the bathroom. We’ll be banned from the hospital for life.
“Here.” Phoebe cracks the door and sticks her hand through. She’s holding a floral dress identical to mine. “Change in plans.”
“This is Sarah’s dress,” I say as much to myself as I do to Phoebe. “How did you get Sarah’s dress?”
“Penny, I don’t have time for this. Just put on the damn dress and come out.”
She closes the door, and I do as I’m told. Sarah’s the same size as me, so the dress goes on easy. When I open the door, her shoes are right there, waiting for me. The woman is basically like Mary Freaking Poppins. I expect her to be on the bed covered in a bedsheet or a hospital gown next to Martin, but she’s not. Martin is in the chair by the window putting on his socks, and Sarah is next to the hospital room door. She has Smith’s jacket draped over her and a look on her face that is definitely nothing like Mary Poppins.
“Sarah, thank you so much for doing this,” I say. “Really, you didn’t have to come here at all, and the fact that you did and you’re letting me wear your clothes and—”
“Listen.” Her voice is low and threatening in a chipmunk sort of way. “I don’t know what I walked in on earlier, but let me make something perfectly clear. Smith is my boyfriend—not yours—and if you think I’m going to let some thirtysomething woman who still shops at Forever 21 steal him, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“You have my word.” I hold up my fingers in a peace sign. “Spice Girls honor.”
“Huh?” She makes a face. “What does that even mean?”