I felt a bonfire of embarrassment ignite inside my face.

Wynezra laughed. “Oh my god! Who’da thunk I could blush like that?”

Wynezra walked into the bathroom, stepped in front of the mirror, and then took off her (my) shirt. Then—to my horror—she flexed.

“Oh baby!” she said. “Look at those deltoids!”

I had no idea what a deltoid was, but she appeared to be putting an obscene amount of emphasis on the shoulder-y region.

Once Wynezra was satisfied, she grabbed the door. “Okay, peep show’s over, pretty lady.”

She closed the door in my face.

Well, this was a total disaster. What was I supposed to do now?

I retreated to Wynonna’s room and sat on her bed. Then I fell back on the mattress, arms flailed out. In Wynonna’s baby-blue puffer coat, I felt like I should be sweeping my arms up and down, making a snow angel.

Wynonna knew I had a crush on Imogen.

I’d question how she knew it, but who was I kidding? It was probably super obvious. How many people turned into speechless idiots when they were within the immediate vicinity of Imogen Klutz?

Then a thought occurred: Had Wynonna and Imogen ever talked about me?

Wynonna said that Imogen had no idea I had a crush on her. But how would she know that? Maybe Imogen never said anything about it—that could be evidence enough.

Or maybe Wynonna knew this because she asked Imogen about it. I could already see the hypothetical conversation in my head:

Wynonna: I’m so cool. I’m so badass. PS: I think Ezra has a crush on you.

Imogen: Why ever would you say such a thing? Surely, he and I are merely friends who share a platonic bond that transcends the spoken word. By the way, did you notice his elegantly disheveled hair today? Very debonair.

I suddenly couldn’t stop thinking about the hypothetical conversation that took place.

I could ask Wynonna if said hypothetical question actually took place. But that would be embarrassing. Besides, I just so happened to be in her bedroom—the most sacred and private place of teenagekind—and Wynonna was currently distracted, showering my naked body.

Did she keep a diary?

I jumped off the bed and started snooping. I started with her bedside table, then moved to her cluttered desk, then to her dresser. With each place I looked, I made sure not to disrupt the intricate order of her chaos. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I took a step back and absorbed the bedroom in all its anarchy.

If I were Wynonna’s diary, where would I be?

Hell, if I were Wynonna’s diary, would I even exist? Wynonna didn’t exactly seem like the diary-keeping type. Maybe no one was the diary-keeping type these days. Everything was digital.

Did she have a computer? A laptop?

The desk was empty, but my gaze continued to scan the room.