In a moment of panic, I dropped my gaze and scoured the vicinity for a convenient place to redirect my attention. The first thing I saw was Holden’s butt—he was turned the other way, talking to Imogen—so I did the unthinkable and smacked it.

I—as Wynonna Jones—smacked Holden’s ass.

There was so much adrenaline coursing through my body, however, that I smacked it just a little too hard. It probably hurt. Holden, meanwhile, yelped and whipped around.

Imogen’s jaw plunged.

Wynezra stared at me with unparalleled horror.

“RACE YOU TO THE CAR,” I screamed in a mentally deranged sort of way, and bolted to the car like I meant it.

Against all the odds in the universe, Holden actually chased after me.

The drive home was quiet. This had everything to do with the ass-smacking. Holden and I grew awkward after racing to the car. (Holden won, by the way.) I was a little distracted by the aftermath. Like, what was the winner supposed to get anyway? Another smack on the ass? Meanwhile, Imogen was stunned silly by my brazenness, and Wynonna was flushing—practically slow-roasting—with embarrassment in the driver’s seat.

Willow sat between me and Holden, observing our silence like some sort of bizarre performance art piece.

Finally, she turned to me.

“I like your hair,” she said.

I couldn’t remember the last time Willow had complimented me. Maybe she had never complimented me. And I guess, if you wanted to get technical, she wasn’t complimenting me now either; she was complimenting Wynonna. Wynonna’s hair had nothing to do with me.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered.

“Thanks,” I said. “I like yours, too.”

I glanced at the driver’s seat and the back of Wynezra’s head. She was casually observing us in the rearview mirror.

“Don’t listen to Ezra,” I said as an afterthought. “He has shit taste in hair.”

“Hey!” Wynezra protested. “I said it’s badass, didn’t I?”

Holden chuckled. “I agree, Willow. It’s very badass.”

“Would it be weird if I said I want to touch it?” said Imogen.

That comment earned laughs from just about everyone.

“I’m serious!” said Imogen. “There’s just so much texture and… and girth! I just want to stick all of my fingers in it and wiggle them around.”

We were dying. We were already dead.

Everyone was dropped off in the same order as last time. First Holden, then Imogen. Once we dropped Imogen off, Willow offered me shotgun—which I took, gratefully. Mostly, I hoped that it would give me some sort of communicative advantage with Wynezra.

It didn’t.

Wynonna and I hadn’t swapped back yet, and things were probably about to get weird.

Once we pulled up to the front curb of the Lakes, I fidgeted in the passenger seat.

“Welp,” said Wynezra. “Don’t tell Carol I said hi.”