Now that I knew they were in my butt, it was hard for me to not notice it. In fact, it was horribly distracting. I considered the possibility of changing underwear—the type that left your butt crack alone—but that involved taking these ones off, and that sounded like a challenge for a different day. Instead, I scoured the bedroom for pants. Clothes were lying everywhere—cluttering the floor, draped over the bed frame, occupying every available flat surface. I searched for the least formfitting thing I could find, which was kind of a Where’s Waldo? situation.

Just as my resolve was about to crumble, I stumbled upon a pair of baggy gray sweatpants. I pulled them on. I then slid barefoot into a pair of fat DC skater shoes. I returned to the closet door mirror and evaluated myself.

Oh god. My nipples.

They were like a pair of twin pistol barrels, locked and loaded and ready.

A bra. I needed a bra.

Once again, I faced the moral dilemma of taking something off in order to put something on.

I was way too virgin to handle this much responsibility. I slid the mirror door open and plundered the closet in search of an alternative.

The alternative presented itself to me almost immediately—a gigantic baby-blue puffer coat. Very reminiscent of what Adam Sandler wore in Little Nicky. Though it was stuffed in the very back of the closet, there was no hiding this puffy blue monstrosity. I pulled it on, zipped it up, and stepped in front of the mirror door.

I looked like an idiot. Or Wynonna did, I should say. But any trace of commando tits had been eliminated.

That was good enough for me.

I opened Wynonna’s bedroom door and peered outside. The hallway was empty. No sound. I crept out, tiptoeing across the hardwood floor. The hallway walls were littered with picture frames.

As much as I wanted to get out of this unfamiliar house as soon as possible, my gaze drifted inevitably to the pictures. Most of them were old. I could tell because Wynonna looked under ten—even younger in some. In nearly every photo, her mom and dad were on either side of her, crouching to her level. And every time, Wynonna would reach her arms up to hang around their necks. This pose appeared in a variety of locations—the park, the swimming pool, Disney World.

Wynonna was an impeccable amalgamation of her parents.

Despite how old these photos were, Wynonna’s face was unmistakable. Her strong jaw and cheekbones (her dad’s), her regal nose (her mom’s)—all of which Wynonna had now grown into. Most notable was the lopsided way her lips curled when she smiled. I was more used to seeing it as an antagonistic smirk, but still—it was 100 percent, trademark-brand Wynonna.