What about this—this apartment, this cash-paid studio stuffed with pot ash, my invasive work, my complete lack of any life outside of one-hundred-hour workweeks—or, fuck, me, my life, or my existence at all would Wyatt find irresistible? What part of my real life could I offer him that he’d fall in love with? The Noël I’d been in Mexico was… Well, someone I wished I could be. But me? Real me, real Noël?
