Текст книги "The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty"

Автор книги: Amanda Filipacchi

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter Fifteen

Strad tells Lily it’s been three years since he’s been with a woman who made him want to take a vacation with her. He suggests they go on a trip for two weeks to the Puerto Rican island of Vieques. Then he says, “Why not leave tomorrow?”

Excited by his spontaneity and enthusiasm for her, Lily agrees to go on vacation with him the next day. Worried that the airline might not let her wear a mask, she insists they take separate flights. She says she always travels alone.

MY FRIENDS SANS Lily come over for a Night of Creation. I’ve been daydreaming about Peter a lot since he gave me that frustratingly incomplete demonstration a few days ago, so it stirs me even more than usual when he walks through the door and kisses me on the cheek.

While we work, the room is quiet without Lily here playing her piano. Half an hour into our session, I go to the kitchen to get some juice. Peter joins me.

Softly, so the others can’t hear, he says, “Can I see you tomorrow evening?”

I don’t answer right away, wondering how I’ll survive twenty-four hours until then.

“Please say you can see me tomorrow,” he whispers, leaning against the island, his back to our friends. His smile is so seductive I nearly drop the knife I picked up to cut a lemon. He adds, “We need to finish that demonstration I started. One of the five senses was missing, remember?”

“Yes, I remember.” I clear my throat. “Okay, tomorrow.”

“Thank God,” he says. “Otherwise we’d have to wait a week because I’m leaving after tomorrow to visit my dad in California for five days.”

“Oh.”

“And that would be too long to wait, don’t you think?”

That he’s showing this much interest in me moves me deeply. My gray curls shield my face as I lean over my lemon and answer “Yes,” casually.

“We can hear you!” Georgia hollers, and then mutters to herself, “Where is Lily when we need her to mask the noises of love?”

She resumes her typing, but louder.

I LOOK FORWARD to Peter’s visit with utmost anticipation. But he calls me in the morning to let me know that sadly he will not be able to come over tonight because of unforeseen work obligations. He says he’s very disappointed and can’t wait to see me when he returns from his trip, in six days.

After we hang up, I wander from room to room, stunned, like a human being dying of thirst having just been told the water will not arrive today as promised, but possibly after I’m already dead.

I get back to my work in a daze. It takes me a while to regain my focus.

AS LILY REPORTS to me later, the first few days in Vieques are heavenly for her and Strad. She wears her mask by the hotel pool and on the beach. She even swims with it a few times, trying not to wet it too much.

People stare, of course. But Strad and Lily don’t care. In their rooms, she doesn’t wear the mask, only the music.

Strad feels protective of her. He’s attentive to her psychological and emotional needs. The more she gets to know him, the more she loves him.

BACK IN NEW York, I’ve been having an intense e-mail correspondence with Peter while he’s away visiting his dad. Our exchanges are flirtatious and titillating. I can hardly sleep. I spend most of my days smiling or snickering to myself while working, reminiscing about the last message sent or received.

I can’t wait for him to get back, can’t wait for him to indulge his sense of touch. I wonder what first move he has planned, how he will touch me, how he will kiss me, how he will undress me, how surprised he’ll be to encounter my fake fat under my clothes, how astonished—though not overly ecstatic, otherwise that would make him shallow—he’ll be to discover I’m attractive by every conventional standard, not only by his open-minded, evolved, and big-hearted one. For the first time, I will take off my disguise out of love, not out of hate, like I do in bars. And then I can keep it off, because I will no longer be searching for my soul mate. I will have found him.

My friends have remarked that since I’ve met Peter, I’ve stopped going to bars and doing my stripping ritual. It’s true, I’ve lost the urge to rub shallow men’s faces in their own superficiality.

PETER RETURNS FROM his trip, and our long-awaited reunion is that same evening, during which he will complete his demonstration by delighting his sense of touch. I’m very excited, imagining his caresses.

When he walks through my door, right on time, he gives me a big hug and smiles at me, saying, “I missed you.” He’s lightly stroking my gray curls with the tips of his fingers. I’m glad my wig is made of real hair.

We position ourselves just like we did at his apartment, with me on the couch and him on a chair facing me, close.

He opens his bag and pulls out a piece of fabric. He begins stroking the fabric—red velvet—while staring at me.

Needless to say, this is not the kind of touching I expected.

After what feels like ten minutes (but maybe it was just one), I say, “Is it still good?”

“Remarkably.”

“You’d think the pleasure of touching that thing would wear off after a few minutes.”

“Hasn’t yet. It’s really very soft.”

I nod. Maybe if I act ever so slightly bored, that will nudge him in the right direction. So I lean my head back and gaze past him, as though momentarily lost in thought.

After another minute, he says, “Well, that was great.” He puts his piece of velvet back in his bag.

I smile and nod again. And wait. He does nothing.

“So, is the demonstration complete?” I ask.

“I think so. At least for now. I mean, one can always do better, I suppose. There are always more pleasures one can come up with.”

I wait a moment, hopeful, but he still does nothing.

I laugh, worn out. I could try to nudge him a little more, but I’m tired of it, so instead, I say, “You know, you’re a bit strange.”

“I know,” he blurts. “The reason is . . . there’s something I need to tell you. But I don’t want to, because it’s something about me I’m not sure you’d like.”

Everyone has secrets these days—I think of KAY’s secret identity, whoever KAY is, of mine, of Lily’s.

“Really? You’d be surprised, I’m very open-minded,” I say.

“Maybe not as much as you think.”

“What is it? I’m sure I’ve heard worse.”

“If I tell you,” he says, “I don’t think you’ll want to see me again.”

“Now I’m intrigued. Why don’t you tell me?”

“The consequences could be dire.”

I don’t insist because I don’t believe him. I think it’s the classic: It’s not you, it’s me.

And I’m starting to think he’s the classic guy, like all those guys I’ve met at bars. He can’t get past my teeth, my fat, my gray, my frizz. I suspect that’s the secret thing he knows I won’t like about him—the fact that he’s not attracted to me.

He says he should be getting home because he has an early day tomorrow, and that it was lovely to see me. He leans forward and gives me a kiss on the cheek, and then he’s gone.

ON LILY AND Strad’s seventh morning in Vieques, they are sitting on her balcony, her legs resting on his. Her music is playing just inside and is very audible from where they are, so she’s not wearing her mask. But she’s holding it on her lap, just in case.

The empty breakfast dishes are on a low table in front of them. Lily is staring out at the ocean.

“You seem melancholy,” Strad remarks, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“No, I’m fine,” she says, smiling.

But that’s not quite true. What she’s thinking about is the one flaw in their happiness: her dishonesty.

Yet what can she do? Nothing, if she wants their relationship to continue.

Looking down at her beautiful mask, she thinks about how much she hates it, about how much she wishes she didn’t have to wear it. And she thinks about the guilt. And the fear. Guilt about lying to Strad. Fear of being discovered. Plus, the mask is uncomfortable to wear. And the music is annoying.

Her confidence has been soaring lately—foolishly, she knows. She’s been thinking that perhaps he’d still love her if she revealed she’s Lily. After all, their great times together seem based on so much more than just her looks. Maybe beauty matters only at the start of a relationship, when it sparks the initial interest. But each time she formulates this thought, she beats herself up about the stupidity of it. The thought, however, comes back: Strad was very nice about her childhood sexual abuse story. Very supportive and understanding. Isn’t there a chance he might be equally understanding if she revealed her true story, which in a way is no less tragic: extreme ugliness, no romantic or sexual interest from anyone, ever. And once again she can’t believe how dumb she is to think he’d be understanding. He already knows Lily. Has he seemed charmed by her plight? Did he court her? No.

They go parasailing together over the ocean, both under the same parachute. People stare at Lily in her white mask. Afterward, they lie on chairs on the beach, reading and people-watching, commenting to each other about the beachgoers’ swimsuits, flirtations, affectations, and reading material. They laugh and play in the water, touching each other naughtily, and return to the hotel.

Lily heads for her room, which is adjacent to Strad’s. She’s the one who insisted they have separate rooms so that she could sleep without her mask or the music on.

Strad stands behind Lily as she slides her electronic key in the lock. She pushes her door open and gasps when she sees what’s inside. The room is filled with flowers, bouquets resting on every surface. A little dinner table that wasn’t there before is beautifully set for two.

She looks at Strad. He admits responsibility and tells her a bath has been run for her if she feels like one before their dinner here at eight.

Strad goes back to his room. Enchanted, Lily steps into the hot bath. She’s never had rose petals floating on her bathwater before. She takes off her mask and places it on the floor, within her reach. The music is off. She closes her eyes and enjoys the silence.

After her bath, she dons a pretty yellow chiffon dress and lies on her bed, waiting for dinner. No further preparations are needed. Her music is the only makeup she wears. Applying regular makeup on top of her musical makeup mars perfection, as she discovered recently when, out of curiosity, she tried it.

Strad knocks on her door at eight. She turns on the music, puts on her mask, and opens the door. He’s dressed in an off-white linen suit. Very charming, she thinks. Once his brain is certain to be under the influence of the music, Lily unmasks.

Dinner is brought to them, and when they are finished eating and laughing about the fun day they had, Strad leans back in his chair and says, “A big part of who I am, as a bastard, is my desire to show off my beautiful girlfriends to my friends, acquaintances, and enemies, in order to arouse their envy.”

This takes Lily by surprise, and she half expects him to say, “Therefore, it’s not going to work out between us, and we better call it quits.”

Instead, he says, “But I’m so in love with you that none of that matters anymore.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little black velvet box, which he hands to her. She opens it. Inside is a beautiful diamond ring.

He goes down on one knee and says, “I would love to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”

Lily is shocked by the proposal. And happy. But something is holding her back from giving him an answer.

Nevertheless, the awkward silence is not painfully long, because Strad has more to say. He sits back in his chair and declares he wants to help her get over her mask-wearing. He says he’ll go with her to therapy if she wants, because he’d like to help her achieve a normal, mask-free existence—for her sake. If she doesn’t want to, that’s fine. He will happily marry her and spend the rest of his life with her masked and put to music.

Lily still doesn’t know what to say, except, “Thank you. I’m incredibly honored. Would it be okay if I gave your beautiful proposal a little thought?”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“So . . . you’re not sure?” he asks.

“It’s just . . . that . . . my situation is very complicated, as you know. I have issues I need to consider.”

“Of course.”

WHEN LILY IS alone later that night, she calls me. She doesn’t want to talk about herself yet, she just wants to be distracted from her problem. She asks if things have progressed between Peter and me. She’s the one person to whom I’ve confessed my attraction to him.

“Not really. He says there’s something about him he thinks I won’t like,” I tell her.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. But I suspect it’s just an excuse and that the real problem is my disguise.”

“That would be disappointing,” Lily states softly.

“I’m tempted to take it off.”

“That’s major. And funny because I’m tempted to take mine off, too.”

“Why?”

“Do you disapprove?”

“No, I’m just surprised.”

“Why would you be? You’re thinking of taking yours off.”

“Yes, but I’d be doing it to see if his lack of interest is due to my appearance. And if it is, I can forget about him. You’d be doing it to . . . I’m not sure why you’d be doing it.”

“To see if his love can survive my appearance.”

I refrain from pointing out that if she puts her happiness at risk, she might also be putting Strad’s life at risk. I don’t remind her that there is a killer among us who’s had trouble tolerating Lily’s unhappiness and whose promise not to try harming Strad again may not hold as much weight as we’re all hoping it does.

THE NEXT DAY, Lily and Strad try to have a good time, but they’re both so tormented for their own reasons that they can’t enjoy themselves. They drive around the island in their little white Jeep. They aren’t able to take much pleasure at the sighting of wild horses roaming like stray dogs along the sides of the roads.

They stop at a deserted beach and sit, in silence, on a rock. The ocean is calm, barely making a sound.

Strad speaks. “I have a surprise for you the day after tomorrow, in the evening. It’s something I’ve planned since I booked this trip. It’s one of the most extraordinary things you could ever imagine.”

Lily smiles. “Sounds exciting.”

A few minutes pass.

Looking out at the ocean, Strad gently says, “So, do you think you might be getting closer to making a decision about my proposal?”

“There’s something about me you might not like if you knew it,” she says, inspired by Peter’s words to me.

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure I feel comfortable talking about it.”

“Well, then, don’t tell me. Just accept my proposal.”

“It’s something you’d want to know.”

“The only thing I want to know is if you’ll marry me.”

“You wouldn’t feel that way if you knew what it was.”

“I can’t imagine anything you could possibly reveal that would change my mind or lessen my enthusiasm.”

“And yet, that’s exactly what I’m afraid will happen—your enthusiasm will be lessened. To put it mildly.”

“And you know what I’m afraid of? That that’s just an excuse. That you’re the one who’s not very excited about marrying me.”

“What I’m not excited about is the prospect of accepting a proposal that might not exist if you knew the truth.”

“Then why don’t you tell it to me so I can prove you wrong?”

Lily doesn’t know what to do. There are so many good reasons to tell Strad the truth, such as: How can she fool him forever? Does she really want to live that way? And is it fair to him? Isn’t it better that they deal with the truth now? And isn’t it better that she be the one to tell him rather than risk having him find out some other way?

Sometimes she’s on the brink of telling him, such as when they’re lying tensely on towels on the beach.

She succeeds in talking herself out of it.

As a way of discouraging herself further from entertaining such a self-destructive notion, she considers asking him what he thinks of Lily, physically. His answer—if it doesn’t outright kill her—is bound to ensure her silence. But she doesn’t ask him for lack of courage.

She tries to be more upbeat about her circumstances. She reminds herself that it’s not really so bad having always to wear a mask or to play the music. Plenty of people are still able to enjoy life despite having to live with a cumbersome piece of equipment like a wheelchair, an oxygen tank, or how about a pouch attached to a hole in the abdomen through which they defecate? Lily saw a documentary on that, once. Even though the show convinced her that colostomy pouches are not as terrible as most people think, wearing a mask is better, Lily reasons. Many people with colostomy pouches find true love, she is certain of it—and no, not necessarily only with another person who has a colostomy pouch.

So she does nothing.

MY FRIENDS COME over for our scheduled Night of Creation. In the middle of the evening, when everyone is working and I go to the kitchen to get some coffee, Peter joins me there as usual and whispers, “Now that I’ve given you a full session of my pleasure vibes, I believe it’s your turn.”

He doesn’t cease to surprise me.

“Can I come and collect tomorrow after lunch?” he asks.

“Uh, okay.”

“Will you arrange to have pleasures you can indulge in while I bathe in your vibes?”

“Sure.”

LILY AND STRAD make love that night, but it’s a quiet affair, tinged with sadness.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Give me the bad news, if that’s what it is. I can’t take it anymore. I need an answer. If you don’t want to marry me, please just say so. Put me out of my misery.”

“I can’t just say yes,” she says, pulling away. “I lied to you.”

“About loving me?”

“No.”

His face lights up. “Well then nothing else matters.” He embraces her again. “I’m very forgiving of liars, being a great one myself. I’ve lied to countless girlfriends. Never to you, of course. But I know that lying doesn’t always come from bad motives. I don’t hold it against you. What did you lie to me about?”

“My mask.”

“Is that all? I don’t care. What was the lie?”

“Everything I told you about it. The reasons why I wear it.”

“You mean you weren’t sexually molested as a child?”

“No.”

“So why do you wear it?”

“That’s the thing. That’s what I’m having trouble telling you.”

“Then don’t tell me. I don’t care why you wear it, and I don’t care that you wear it. And plus, I’m sure the truth is not that bad.”

“No, it’s not that bad. But to you it may be worse than to most.”

“I don’t know what sort of misconception you have about me, but I’m very average.”

THE NEXT DAY, Peter comes over to my place at three. I was hoping to get a lot of work done before that so that I wouldn’t feel guilty about taking the rest of the afternoon off, but I was unable to focus on my work. I was in a trance, completely stoned on the love hormones coursing through my body. I got almost nothing done.

“Did you stock up on some pleasures?” he asks.

“Yes, I have a couple that could do the trick. And I skipped lunch so that I’d experience maximum pleasure during the session.”

“That’s very nice of you.”

I don’t mention that skipping lunch did not succeed in making me hungry. The stronger my feelings for Peter have become, the less appetite I’ve had. As a result, I’ve lost weight recently, which was not something I especially needed.

I arrange my pleasures on a tray. We settle ourselves in the same way as last time—me on the couch, Peter on a chair facing me.

I first take my iPod from the tray and start listening to the French pop song “Un Jour Arrive,” which I happen to be fond of at the moment. I open my bottle of Petite Chérie perfume and hold it under my nose, feeling the intoxicating scent of pear and spices dance under my nostrils to the romantic melody.

Peter is watching me carefully. I don’t take my eyes off him.

There is only food left on my tray of pleasures. Before the end of the first song, I put down the perfume and transition to goat cheese on a cracker. I don’t generally like cheese, but that particular goat cheese is one of my favorite foods. Even though I’m not hungry, I do my best to savor it, luxuriating in the delicious sharp flavor. Peter’s gaze is intense and seductive. I try not to let my attraction to him distract me from my task.

“Am I any good?” I ask.

“Remarkable,” he says.

He says nothing more. And neither do I. We are sitting motionless, looking at each other. Now is the time, the ideal time, for him to kiss me.

I wait. But nothing happens.

I start feeling sick with disappointment. He is toying with me.

Or maybe he does want to make a pass at me, but can’t bear the look of me.

I can’t take it anymore. He has almost passed my test. He is almost there. He is clearly interested in me romantically.

That’s why I get up and bend down to kiss him on the cheek—a pass so slight it can hardly be called a pass at all. It’s more of an encouragement, a nudge, to help him cross the finish line.

Looking alarmed, he pulls away before my lips touch his skin.

I’m shocked. I clearly misread him. He had no intention of making a move, ever.

Humiliated, I decide to put an end to his little game right now. I will take off my disguise and present him with his own shallowness as I have done countless times to men at bars.

I start unbuttoning the top buttons of my large man’s shirt that covers my gelatinous jacket.

When Peter sees me about to undress, he leaps out of his chair and grabs my wrists—not out of passion, as I imagine it might be for a second—but, to my horror, out of panic, to restrain me from proceeding. He is that disgusted. Well, I’m glad I found out now instead of letting it drag on.

“Don’t do that,” he says, rebuttoning my top buttons. “Please. Not right now.”

“Okay, forget it, Peter. I get it. I’m not your type. Perfectly understandable.” I pull away, confounded by his aversion and too sad to complete my punishing procedure.

“No, you don’t get it,” he says. “It’s just that there’s something I must tell you before—”

“Yes, I know, something you’re afraid I won’t like about you.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“So tell me.”

“Can I tell you tomorrow? It has the potential of upsetting me very much. If I tell you now, it might be hard for me to anchor the news tonight, whereas tomorrow I’ve got the whole day free. I could come over for dinner and tell you. We could order takeout.”

I agree to let him come for dinner the next day.

IN LATE AFTERNOON the following day, on my way out to Whole Foods to get a few delicacies for our evening, Adam the doorman says, “Oh, Barb, I’ve been meaning to ask you, are your parents siblings?”

Every time he insults me, which is every time he sees me, I feel guilty that I have neglected to give him the name of my therapist. It’s just that there’s always so much going on in my life, so many friends to be concerned about, and Adam is never at the top of my list of priorities.

AT SIX, LILY goes to the lobby of the hotel to meet Strad for the surprise he has planned for her. She’s wearing a bathing suit under a casual outfit, as he instructed. And of course, her white feather mask.

As she waits for him, she paces the lobby, lost in thought, again wondering if she should tell Strad who she really is. Fortunately, he has seemed willing to wait a bit longer for an answer to his marriage proposal, now that he understands the situation is less simple than he thought.

A van picks them up and takes them to an electrically powered pontoon boat. A few passengers board the boat. Lily and Strad join them at the bow.

The boat promptly departs, carrying them over the black sea, along the coast, and into a bay.

The guide tells them that this is the biobay—one of the most magnificent bioluminescent bays in the world. He explains that the water glows around anything that moves because it’s filled with microorganisms that light up when disturbed. He says the glow is only visible on a very dark night with no moon, such as tonight.

The passengers start gasping and shrieking with delight at the beauty of the natural light effects in the water.

Unfortunately, Lily is unable to see anything because of the dark glass covering the eyeholes of her mask. It’s like wearing sunglasses at night. The glass is not detachable, but even if it were, she would not, for anything in the world, remove this important part of her mask which prevents the ugly proximity of her eyes to each other from being seen.

Squeezing Strad’s arm affectionately, Lily gently informs him of the problem, apologizing for her mask spoiling the surprise he had planned for her.

Strad slaps his forehead and curses himself for his oversight. “What a shame,” he says. “But come here. Let me at least describe to you what you’re missing.”

He turns her toward the water and stands behind her, gently pressing himself against her. He’s holding onto the railing on either side of her.

In her ear, he softly says, “As our boat advances, the fish are darting out of its way, causing the water to light up in blue-green streaks. It looks like bolts of lightning tearing through the water. They create wild jagged patterns.”

Lily is saddened by the startling description she can’t see.

She can hear the other passengers saying things like, “It’s just extraordinary! I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Strad guides Lily to the back of the boat.

“Wow,” he marvels, looking at the wake. “Can you see this at all?”

“No. What?”

“The wake glows.”

The boat stops to give passengers a chance to take a swim.

Many of them jump into the water, creating luminescent splashes.

Lily wishes she could see it, swim in it, marry Strad, tell him the truth, take off her mask. She would love to dive into the luminescent water like a carefree person who can experience the beauty of life even though she herself is not beautiful.

“You should go for a swim,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

She nods.

He strips down to his bathing suit and jumps into the bay.

People cheer at the glowing splash he creates. Lily sees nothing except black on black. She remains motionless, gazing down, lost in thought.

She hears a young woman in the water exclaim to her friend, “Oh, look at all the tiny sparkles trickling down my arm!”

And that’s the moment Lily makes a decision.

Strad comes out of the water, dripping. “I was doing water angels. They glowed,” he says.

Lily smiles, forgetting that her smiles are never seen behind the mask.

“Strad,” she says, with a solemnity that gets his full attention, “tomorrow I want to have a wonderful day with you. And tomorrow night, I will keep my mask on all night so that we can sleep in the same bed for the first time. And the next morning, I will tell you the truth.”

Strad lifts her up in the air and twirls her around. “That’s fantastic! Thank you!” He gently lowers her. “And after that will you agree to marry me?”

“If you still want me to.”

I SOAK IN a hot bath, trying to relax before Peter’s visit. I then slip into my fake fat and put on some attractive clothes in very large sizes. By attractive, I mean a huge pair of beige pants made of a dressier fabric than my usual sweat pants. And an extremely large turtleneck made of a silkier cotton than my everyday ones. I then put on my gray frizzy wig, my yellowish crooked teeth, my brown contacts, and my fake glasses.

When Peter arrives at eight p.m., he looks a little tired and pale. He says he has no appetite and asks if I would mind if we waited to eat. I say fine, since my stomach happens to be in knots, too.

We’re standing at the small island that separates the kitchen from the living room, and I decide to get something off my chest before we even sit down: “I’m sorry I got annoyed yesterday. The truth is, I love our friendship. So if things stay the way they are between us, I’ll be more than happy.”

He looks at me seriously, gives a brief nod, and says, “I won’t be.”

“Oh no?” I ask, genuinely surprised.

“No. At least . . . it wouldn’t be my preference.”

A smile escapes me. “I see,” I say, “but at the same time you shouldn’t force yourself. If you feel more comfortable with things the way they are, I understand.”

“I’m not more comfortable. I’m uncomfortable.”

I chuckle. Joy and relief unwind every muscle in my body. “What is your dark secret?” I ask.

“Telling you will be disastrous.” He pauses. “But . . . much as I’ve enjoyed our relationship the way it’s been, I really can’t go on like this. I have to tell you the truth.”

He goes over to the window and gazes down at Union Square. I follow him there. He moves close to me until the space between us is small and intimate. Looking at me sadly, he says, “I want you to know that this thing you don’t know about me is substantial.”

“So what? There’s something substantial you don’t know about me,” I say.

“Unfortunately, no. I don’t think so. That’s my secret, you see. My secret is that I know yours.”

The tension snaps back into my body. Barely breathing, my pulse racing, I carefully ask, “What secret is it that you think you know?”

“I know that when I touch you, like this,” he says, putting his fingertips lightly on my shoulders and running them down my arms, “you feel nothing.”

He walks behind me. “That when I bring my lips this close to your hair and whisper to you, you don’t feel my breath in your gray curls.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me around. “That were I to wrap you in my arms, you would hardly feel a thing because you’ve created a partition between you and the world.”

He lets go of my shoulders.

“How long have you known?” I ask, my eyes filling with tears.

“Since I found Georgia’s laptop in a cab.”

Stunned, I listen as he explains how he allowed himself to open Georgia’s diary document and stumbled upon descriptions of me and my friends and saw photos of me without the fat suit. He says since meeting me, he fell for me like he’d never fallen for anyone, and that’s why it didn’t feel right to let our relationship progress without my being aware of everything.

I don’t respond.

“Is this problematic?” he asks.

I nod. Tears start running down my cheeks.

“You see, I knew it.”

I say nothing.

He says, “I could easily have fooled you by pretending I didn’t know the truth about your true appearance and—”

“You mean as you have done?”

“Uh . . . yes. Except, I could have continued and allowed things to progress. But as my feelings for you deepened, it became harder for me to choose this dishonest option.”