Behind her, a fireplace crackles obediently a single string of rainbow Christmas lights hangs across the windows. Selena Gomez is, in fact, across the street, in an oversized Nirvana shirt and black leggings and a ponytail, waiting on a big white couch, with her caramel Maltipoo curled on top of a furry green throw at her bare feet. Lightly mesmerized, I walk up to the wrong front door and am greeted by a kindly man in a suit and an N95 mask.
The sky is fogged to white the Bronx River ruffles the heavy quiet. It’s early in the New Year, and Selena Gomez is hidden away north of Manhattan, tucked in a room in an anonymous Tudor nestled in the crook of a picturesque village’s curving hills.
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