Imogen’s dizzying absence left me reeling, desperate for stability. It was under those circumstances that I saw my best friend—Holden Durden—sitting alone, and confused, and kind of helpless.

Of course, Ezra wasn’t there. Wynonna probably woke up in my body, was upset that she didn’t have a crippling hangover, and set out in search of other mind-altering substances to slosh her consciousness into oblivion.

I sat down beside Holden.

“Hey,” I said.

Holden looked at me like I was wearing a neon-pink ’80s-themed straitjacket with shoulder pads and matching leg warmers.

“Can I sit here?” I said.

Holden continued to stare a moment longer. Then he returned his focus to his uneaten meat loaf and shrugged. “You can do whatever you want.”

He poked his meat loaf with his fork. It didn’t move or screech or anything, so I guess that was good. Finally, he set the fork down and took a swig of chocolate milk.

“Whoever thought that meat should be cooked in a ‘loaf,’” I said, air-quoting, “should have their procreation privileges revoked.”

Holden nearly spewed his chocolate milk. He only barely managed to choke it down, and even then, some of it seeped out of the corner of his mouth and dribbled down his chin.

“I mean, people say the word ‘loaf,’” I continued, “and I can only hear my dad saying ‘pinch a loaf.’ And then I can’t do it. I just can’t do it anymore.”

Apparently, Holden didn’t choke all of it down. Because the moment I said that, we had an Old Faithful situation. Chocolate milk on his meat loaf, chocolate milk on my meat loaf, and splatters of chocolate milk in between. It was like a really gross Rorschach test.

“Easy there, buddy,” I said. “You need a napkin?”

Holden was still laughing, wiping his mouth with his bare hands. “Oh god. I need a towel. Or a shower.” He glanced at my meat loaf with its freshly spewed chocolate milk glaze. “Sorry about that.”

“Psh! Please. I’d rather eat my own liposuction.”

“Oh my GOD,” said Holden. He was on the verge of tears. “Stop it. You’re going to make me gag on my own tongue.”

“I’d like to see that.”

Holden shook his head as he pulled napkins one by one out of a napkin dispenser. “Whatever. It’s not like you’d ever need liposuction anyway.”

Holden’s entire countenance seemed to change. At first, I thought he was becoming standoffish. It took me a second to remember that I wasn’t myself, I was Wynonna Jones, and—holy shit—was Holden blushing?