“Holden, it’s—”

“And I just wanted to tell you that because, well, there was the janitor’s closet thing that we never really talked about, but also, you know, it’s prom, and there’s a possibility that you and Wynonna will switch again, and if that happens, there’s a possibility that she and I will… uh…”

“Holden!”

Holden stopped. Looked at me.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m a little gay, too.”

Holden reared his head back, except for his eyeballs. Those stayed fixed in midair, practically dislodging from his face. “You are?”

“I think I’m a little lesbian, too.”

Holden couldn’t help it. He laughed. He was defenseless.

“Can I tell you something?” I said. “What I think?”

Holden swallowed, suddenly nervous, and nodded yes.

“I think,” I said, “that there are so many words and labels for who we can be, and what we can be attracted to, and what we can identify as, that it’s sometimes easy to forget ourselves. The important thing isn’t the word or the label. The important thing is you.”

“Me?” said Holden, confused.

“And me,” I said. “And Wynonna. And Imogen. We’re all human beings. I think we’re more complicated than a single word: gay, straight, boy, girl, whatever. Most days, I identify more with a dot in the middle of a blank white page than anything else. And my life could start moving in any direction, and I don’t even know what direction that is! Only that it’s happening. I identify with the blankness. But… I think that’s okay.”

“Because the important thing is you,” said Holden.

I grinned. Returned my attention to the road. “Exactly.”

The important thing was me.

I had been bracing myself for the We’re So Disappointed in You treatment. I had, after all, gotten the car impounded. I spent an hour or two in a juvenile detention facility. I’ll be honest: If I were my parents, not knowing the situation, I would be disappointed in me. I might have even grounded myself from prom! Which made me suddenly panic and wonder if the greatest night of my life was in jeopardy.

That wasn’t what happened.

You see, my parents found out about all this from Roscoe. My parents knew who Roscoe Jones was. They knew who Wynonna Jones was, for that matter!

This whole time, they knew who she was.

And now they knew—in a confused version of the truth—my role in reuniting Wynonna with her dad.

“Hey, these things happen,” said Dad.

“They do?” I said. I wasn’t sure which things he was talking about: leaving your car at the airport drop-off so it could get impounded, or getting mistaken for terrorists and spending a couple hours in a juvenile detention center.

“Of course they do. The important thing is you’re okay.”