We staggered to the restroom. Halfway there, I heard a choking gasp. I looked at Imogen, her face obscured by curtains of sandy hair.

A series of tears had accumulated at the bottom of her chin, then dropped to the floor.

When we made it into the restroom—a surprisingly clean, single-toilet deal—she braced herself on the sink. She turned on the faucet, cupping her hands beneath the steady stream. Splashed water in her face repeatedly, erasing the blood. Erasing the pain.

“Are you… okay?” I said.

Imogen gave a helpless shrug. “Are any of us ever really okay?”

“Uh…”

“It’s like Hamlet said: To be alive is to be in a state of dying. That’s just the human condition.”

“Um…” I said.

C’mon, Ezra. Words!

“I’m pretty sure the human condition is more than just dying,” I said. “Like, there’s gotta be at least one whole section about living.”

Imogen laughed—a short, on-the-edge-of-tears sort of laugh. Her lips pulled into a frail smile. “What do you know about the human condition?”

“I know that I’m here for you.”

Imogen bit her lip.

“I know that if you’re carrying something,” I said, “you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Imogen let out a sharp, jagged breath, like a serrated blade. It seemed to take everything in her not to start crying again.

“It’s just…” she said, “I feel bad for Viola.”

“What? Viola? The character?”

I stared at her while she stared at her reflection in the mirror.

“She’s trapped,” said Imogen. “She loves someone, but that person loves someone else, and even if he didn’t, she’s trapped in a role that prevents them from ever being together.”

“But they do end up together,” I said. “I mean… don’t they? They do in She’s the Man, so I just assumed they do in Twelfth Night.”

“I guess,” said Imogen. “But Viola doesn’t know that. Not yet.”

What the… Did this have to do with the mystery guy Wynonna said Imogen had a crush on?

Who was I kidding? Of course it did! Man, who the hell was this guy? And why was Wynonna so convinced they’d never get together?

“You know,” I said, “you don’t have to be someone else around me.”

Imogen pulled her gaze away from the mirror. Looked directly at me.

“I want to be best friends with the real Imogen Klutz,” I said. “Whoever that is. Not the fake Cesario version.”

Imogen sniffed. Dabbed her eyes with her sweater sleeve. Offered the first real smile I had seen all day.

“Thanks, Wynonna,” she said. “That means a lot to me.”