“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.