“No, see, that’s the thing!” said Holden. “Duke Orsino isn’t romancing it up with Viola. He’s romancing it up with Olivia!”

“Who the hell is Olivia?”

“I dunno, some chick. It’s, like, a love triangle. Viola is pretending to be a dude for some reason, and Olivia has a thing for Dude Viola.”

“Okay, I’m confused.”

“Have you ever seen She’s the Man with Amanda Bynes?”

“No,” I said. Which was a lie. I had watched She’s the Man at least thirteen times with Willow, before she disowned me as a brother.

“Oh… well, me either,” Holden lied.

I knew, for a fact, that Holden had a not-so-secret crush on Amanda Bynes. He inherited her entire filmography and every season of All That from his older brother, Nate—now graduated from college, working as a software engineer—who also had a crush on Amanda Bynes. It was a Durden family tradition.

“But allegedly,” said Holden, breaking the awkward silence, “Twelfth Night and She’s the Man are basically the same thing.”

I nodded ambiguously, because I think I understood what he was saying now, but I was still trying to pretend I hadn’t seen She’s the Man at least thirteen times. Essentially, I was aiming for Channing Tatum’s role as “muscular heartthrob and overall sexual male object.” Great.

Flash.

Suddenly, Holden was Imogen—sitting directly across from me, her enigmatic eyebrows knit together with deep concern. We were in a different corner of the cafeteria, and—most shocking of all—I had a half-eaten pizza in front of me. Right next to an open bag of pork rinds.

Shit. There was pizza in my mouth.

Peter, Bjorn, and John! Was there anything Wynonna was incapable of eating?

I swallowed the wad of chewed pizza under the greatest duress.

“It’s okay,” said Imogen. She leaned forward, extending a long, slender hand. Grabbed my right hand—Wynonna’s hand with the electric-blue nails—and covered it with her other hand. Squeezed it. I immediately felt my body temperature skyrocket. “You can tell me. Is it about Holden?”

I felt something move down my cheek.

I reached up with my free hand—the hand that wasn’t currently sweating like a storm trooper at a shooting range in Imogen’s grasp—and touched my face. I felt the lines of moisture.

I was crying.

Wynonna was crying.

There was a moment when the universe became perfectly synchronized. I obviously knew where Imogen sat at lunch, and Wynonna apparently knew where Holden sat. We didn’t even need to turn our heads. My gaze drifted to my two o’clock, and there was Ezra “Wynezra” Slevin, looking right back at me. Our eyes were interlocked, silently screaming, bloating out of our faces.

“Bathroom,” I blurted out. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Oh,” said Imogen. “Okay.”

She pulled her purse onto her shoulder and stood up.

What the…