I wasn’t even sure what I was specifically crying about. It could have easily been the way Holden was touching me, but it also could have been the way I felt this body reacting—churning in a very sexual way that was both familiar and alien—or it could have been that I had my first kiss with my best friend whom I had nothing but platonic feelings for, or it could have been that Wynezra was “making a move” on Imogen, and deep down, I didn’t want that. Because even though she was wearing my body, it was still her inside, and it would be her experience, not mine.

I completely fell apart at that point—choking, sobbing, dying.

Someone knocked on the door.

“O-o-o-occupied,” I said between choking sobs.

“It’s me, Imogen.”

Oh god. Oh Christ. Oh literal Jesus of Nazareth.

I wiped away at my face, sniffed back the sadness, and took several strangled breaths.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Can I come in?” said Imogen.

“I’m fine, really.”

“Oh, I know. I just need to use the bathroom.”

It was the most perfect, ill-timed joke. I burst out laughing, and then my laughter turned into sobbing all over again.

“I want to talk to the real Wynonna,” said Imogen. “Not the fake Cesario version.”

“I’m not the real Wynonna,” I said. “I’ve been lying to you this whole time.”

“Okay. Well, can I talk to whoever is in this stall?”

Who was I to object to that? I leaned forward and unlocked the stall. Imogen entered, then locked the stall behind her.

“I’d offer you a seat, but…” I gestured elaborately at the lack of additional toilet seats in the stall.

“Is this seat taken?” She pointed at my lap.

I cracked a smile that indicated it was not.

Imogen sat in my lap. For someone as skinny as she was, she was surprisingly heavy. I guess all that extra length and height had to go somewhere.

“I saw you kissing Holden,” she said.

Of course she did. She and Wynezra were sitting in the very back—very top—of the theater. I was sure they saw everything.

“Was it not what you were expecting?” said Imogen.

“It’s not that,” I said. And then I thought of Holden reaching up my leg, and I felt sick. “Not just that. It’s…”

God, how to word this?

“I don’t feel like myself is all,” I said.

“Oh, right,” said Imogen. “Because you’re not the real Wynonna.”

I chuckled. “Exactly.”

“So, who are you?”

“I guess I’m the fake Cesario version.”

“Hmm. That sounds like a pickle.”

“Yes! It’s a fucking pickle is what it is. Thank you!”

“You know,” said Imogen, “Olivia isn’t in love with Viola.”

Wait, what?

“She’s in love with Cesario,” said Imogen. “That love was never fake to her.”