I unlocked the door, Imogen came in, and locked it behind her. Then she looked me up and down with great amusement, like a circus attraction.

“Wow,” she said, suppressing a giggle. “You look like a Christmas present that my baby brother wrapped.”

“Help me,” I said.

“Here, let’s take this thing off and start over. I think you have all the wrong things tied in the wrong places. Arms up.”

Before I could even think to object, she grabbed the bottom and lifted it up to my tits. My arms flew up, but it was mostly a reaction to my panic. The dress came over my head, and Imogen immediately set to work unraveling the puzzle.

There I was, in a tiny four-by-five room, with Imogen, in Wynonna’s bra and panties. I was so embarrassed and sexually overwhelmed, I was unraveling faster than the dress.

“Okay, let’s try this again,” she said.

This time, she lowered the dress and had me step into it. She pulled it up the curves of my body until it seemed to slink into place. Then she moved behind me, adjusting and tying the straps and sashes.

“You seem different,” she said.

My entire body tensed up, like I had been caught in a lie.

“What do you mean?” I said, finally. My voice—even if it wasn’t mine—had never sounded so incriminating.

“It’s not bad,” she said. “You’re just quieter. More… vulnerable. And I mean that in a good way. I miss this. I miss being this close. I feel like there’s been a… not a wall between us, but a layer. And not even a bad layer. More like a protective layer. And it’s weird. Ever since you and Ezra, I feel like that layer just disintegrated.”

I nodded because words eluded me.

“Anyway,” she said, “thank you for being you.”

I know she meant that as the most genuine of compliments. Given the circumstances, however, it made me feel dirty, and ugly, and treacherous. Imogen had so much trust in Wynonna. And I wasn’t Wynonna. I was a liar in the perfect disguise.

“Okay, done,” she said. “Turn around.”

I turned around. Imogen’s eyes lit up.

“Oh. My. Gosh,” she said. “This is it. This is the one.”

Then, inexplicably, she gathered up all Wynonna’s clothes into a bundle in her arms—minus the burgundy combat boots I was still wearing—and left the dressing room with them.

“Come on!” she said. “I’m buying.”

“What?” I said in mild terror. “I can’t go to the register wearing this!”

“Sure you can! I’m a regular, and Phoebe’s at the register. Phoebe lets me do this all the time.”

Sure enough, Phoebe did.

“Mm-mm, girl,” said Phoebe. “Rockin’ that dress. Here, turn around, lemme scan you.”

Next up: nails.