Page 40 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“Yes,” I said. “It means good. Or attractive. Pleasing.”

“The snow is bona?”

I felt heat creep up my neck. “The snow is... acceptable. I was being generous.”

Tom's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. “She called me something else. Trade, I think.”

Now my face was definitely burning. “She did.”

“What does that mean?”

I took a long drag on my cigarette, buying time. “It means... a man. One who might be interested. Or available.” I kept my eyes on the frozen lake. “It's not always polite.”

“She thought I was available?”

“She thought you were following me. Which you were.”

“I was.” He didn't sound apologetic. “Good thing, too.”

We sat in silence for a moment. The skaters on the lake had thinned out, most of them retreating to warmth as the afternoon darkened. Snow continued to fall, soft and relentless.

“Nanti,” I said, because the silence was becoming too heavy. “Means no, or not. Negation.”

“Nanti.” He tested the word, getting the vowels right on the first try. “So nanti bona would be...”

“Not good. Bad.”

“And nanti trade?”

I glanced at him. His expression was carefully neutral, but there was something underneath it. Something waiting.

“Not available,” I said. “Or not interested.”

“Ah.” He stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. The flame illuminated his face for a moment, caught the sharp line of his jaw and the tired creases around his eyes. “Useful to know. In case I need to disappoint someone.”

My heart was doing something complicated in my chest. “Do you often need to disappoint people?”

“Not as often as you'd think.” He passed me the cigarette without asking, and I took it, our fingers brushing in the exchange. “Most people don't bother asking.”

“Their loss.”

The words came out before I could stop them. Too honest. Too revealing. I kept my eyes fixed on the lake, afraid of what I'd see if I looked at him.

Tom was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Omi. That's another one. Means man.”

“You remember.”

“I remember everything.” He took the cigarette back. “So if I wanted to say... a good man. A bona omi.”

“Yes.” My voice came out rougher than I intended. “That's right.”

“Bona omi,” he repeated, and the way he said it, low and deliberate, made something twist in my stomach. “I like that.”

We sat in silence, smoking, watching the snow fall and the last skaters stumble toward shore. The cold was seeping through my coat, numbing my fingers, but I couldn't bring myself to move. Couldn't break whatever fragile thing was building between us in the gathering dark.

NINE

THE SOUND OF SIRENS