That was all I had to say. I stopped talking. I glanced down at a tiny—almost invisible—magenta spot that had managed to bleed through my dress. But no matter how small it was, now that I had noticed it, there was no un-noticing it.

Wynezra cleared her throat.

“Holden touching your leg like that wasn’t entirely his fault,” she said. “I kind of… gave him tips.”

My head snapped up. “What?”

“But they were tips meant for me, not you. It was in case we swapped back—which I was almost sure we would have by now—and I guess it was kind of a filter, too, in case we hadn’t swapped.”

I was so confused, and my face probably said as much.

“There were tiers,” said Wynezra. “Tier one: hold hands. I didn’t think you’d actually let him hold your hand, but I knew you were trying to get me a date to prom, too, so I had a second tier: kiss. Like, make out for a little bit. And I thought for sure he wouldn’t get that far with you, and that’s when I told him Wynonna would want him to start… you know… getting a little handsy on the inner thigh.”

I stared at Wynezra.

“Look, girls get horny, too!” she said defensively. “I watched Holden change into seven different outfits. I was in his bedroom, and he was changing right in front of me, and he wanted my opinion on how he looked, and I just really wanted him to touch me. So, sorry for getting a little preemptive.”

I laughed.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing,” I said, not very nothing-ly.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re just kind of adorable as me.”

That actually made Wynezra smile. “You’re a pretty smokin’ Wynonna yourself.”

Again, we sat, marinating in the silence and the brisk bite of evening in April. This tiny dress was rapidly becoming “not enough.” I pulled my legs up to my chest and squeezed them for warmth. I clenched my teeth, but even that couldn’t stop the inevitable rattling. A deep shiver dug its way into my core.

I didn’t notice the blazer until Wynezra had already put it on my shoulders. I looked at her, just a little bit mind-blown.

“Thanks,” I said, which barely scratched the surface of my gratitude.

“Hey, I’m doing it for me, not you,” she said. “I know how cold I get. Don’t want myself to catch something. And it’s your coat.”

I smiled. “Well, thanks anyway.”

Wynezra didn’t respond for a long time. Meanwhile, I slipped my arms into the sleeves of the blazer and attempted to wrap them around my legs. Tucking Wynonna into the smallest ball imaginable, I was just barely successful.

“Sorry about the Imogen thing,” said Wynezra. “I should have told you the truth.”

She should have. But I kept that comment to myself.