His suicide was a complete shock, and yet, looking back, he often seemed a bit melancholy. I noticed it especially when I was alone with him.

In some ways he was the most talented of our group, because he was the most versatile, intelligent, and funny. He was a renowned chef who owned one of the best restaurants in New York City. But unlike Georgia, Lily, or me, who are creative only in our specific fields, Gabriel was creative in all areas. When any of us encountered a bump in our work, he seemed always to come up with some suggestion, some little idea that made all the difference. We were in complete admiration. No one could talk to Georgia about her novels the way Gabriel could. He was the only one she actually discussed her ideas with as she was writing them.

He was a private person, never granting interviews or posing for photographs. Even with us he was a bit reserved and mysterious. Whenever we asked him if there was anyone he was romantically interested in, he just brushed the topic aside good-humoredly. Yet there were plenty of people interested in him. When I walked down the street with him, I noticed women and men eyeing him. And they flirted with him when he stood in lines. He could have had his pick. But he never seemed interested in anyone. I had no idea it was me he was in love with.

I do remember one evening when he was supposed to drop off some food. I was wearing a dress I’d just finished making for a period movie and I was eager to get his reaction to it. I loved showing him my costumes because his face was expressive and gave away his opinion even before he spoke.

When he arrived and I opened the door for him, I said, “Tell me what you think of this dress.”

He didn’t look as pleased as I’d hoped. He stared at me and said, “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s physically painful to look at you, you’re so beautiful.”

I smiled broadly. “I knew you’d like it! I think it might be my best one yet.” I twirled.

“It’s not the dress. Your beauty interferes with my ability to judge the dress.” He looked away.

My whole life, people have given me compliments on my looks, so this compliment didn’t particularly stand out. I felt my face drooping. “So you don’t like it that much?”

“I’d have an easier time judging it on a hanger.” He seemed pained as he went to the kitchen and put the food in the fridge.

After that, there was a period when I hardly saw Gabriel. He threw himself into his work and began dating obsessively. Eventually, that tapered off and he spent more time with us again, until one day, after I had a pleasant and uneventful visit with him at his apartment, I exited his building, and he caught up with me by taking the most direct route.

Falling at me from the twenty-eighth floor, he shattered himself at my feet. I don’t think he intended to traumatize me for life—though he has.

I REFUSED TO leave my apartment for weeks after Gabriel died, except to attend his funeral. I was devastated by the destructive effect I’d had on him without realizing it. I wondered if I might be harming others as well. I moped around, feeling dreadful, feeling like a wreck. My face felt shrunken and shriveled, ravaged by sadness, as though it must have aged twenty years, but each time I gazed in the mirror, hoping I looked as bad as I felt, I never did.

I found it unbearable. It didn’t have to be that way. There could be ways to solve this problem. And if anyone had the skills to solve it, I did.

I began by trying on a frizzy gray wig. It helped a little, but I still looked very good. So I experimented with some imperfect fake teeth that changed the shape of my mouth in a slightly unflattering way. I toned down the brilliance of my aqua eyes with brown contact lenses. And I put some glasses on top.

There was still the problematic body to deal with. I knew how to create a simple-but-convincing jiggling fat suit. I’d made several for body doubles in movies.

I had the materials delivered, and constructed the suit. It was easy to put on, weighed about ten pounds, and made me look eighty pounds heavier. It helped tremendously.

I finally agreed to see Georgia, who had been trying unsuccessfully for weeks to get me out of the apartment. I was wearing the full disguise when I opened the door for her. She seemed startled and said, “Oh, hi. I’m a friend of Barb’s. Is she here?”

“It’s me,” I said.

She was speechless. She squeezed my arm, to feel the consistency of my bulk, perhaps wondering if I’d genuinely gained all that weight in a few weeks.

When she had assured herself that my fat was fake, she said, “Is this one of your new costumes? I’m glad you’re working, at least.”

“No. This is how I should have looked. Then Gabriel would still be alive.”

After a pause, she said, “Yes, he probably would be.”

She walked around me, examining me from every angle.

“From now on,” I said, “I think I should wear this costume. I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore. My looks are to blame for his death.”

She looked stunned for a moment, but then said, “Absolutely.”

I knew that tone of hers. She was humoring me, to be shocking.

So I reminded her, “His suicide note said he killed himself over me and that my appearance was causing him pain.”

“I think this costume is an excellent idea,” she said. “Your beauty is a deadly weapon. Wielding it recklessly is irresponsible. You must treat it like a personal handgun—keep it hidden, handle it with care, and never point it at people, not even in jest, unless you intend to use it.”

I detected a note of anger in her voice, and I was no longer sure if she was humoring me or blaming me for Gabriel’s death.

“I wasn’t exactly flaunting my looks, you know,” I said.

“If you think your meager attempts to hide your beauty were successful, you’re deluded. Is a gun in a holster hidden?”

“You’re talking to me like I’m a five-year-old who accidentally shot my best friend to death.”

“That wasn’t my intention. Despite what his suicide note said, it’s not your fault he died. Your beauty is not you. But it is in your possession and you should control it.”

“Stop comparing my appearance to a weapon. I didn’t kill him.”

“Exactly. I rest my case,” she said, giving me a small smile.

Through her usual psychological manipulation, she got me to say the exact opposite of what I was saying at first.

“So you don’t think my disguise is a good idea?” I asked.

“Of course not. And I hope you don’t either.”

“Yes, I do.”

“It’s not your fault Gabriel died. And if you believe it is, you’re wrong. And if you still believe it is, forgive yourself for his death. And if you can’t, so be it, but you can’t be serious about wearing this disguise.”

“I am.”

She stared at me and finally gave up. “Fine. Anything that helps you get out of the house is fine.”

I liked the disguise. It felt like a punishment and a protection all at once, both of which I’d been craving without realizing it.

Breaking the news to my mother about my new appearance was not a fun prospect. I made an effort to dress well for the occasion—not in my usual sweatpants, sneakers, and ponytail. Instead, I wore an enormous pair of tailored fancy pants over my fat suit, and dressy black pumps, even with a slight heel. A very large silk shirt over my fake-fat jacket. I wore my well-combed gray frizzy wig, my subtly ugly fake teeth. For the first time since my parents had split up, I even put on a little makeup.

I wobbled toward the car, my huge thighs rubbing against each other. I opened the passenger door and said, “Hi Mom!” I plopped down in the seat next to her with a huff. It was strenuous carrying all that weight around.

She didn’t say anything at first, just stared, looking aghast. And then she asked, “What is this about?”