Page 32 of In Her Own Rite

My inner animalwantshim smelling like me, I realize, and feel myself blush.

We begin the trek up the hill, and up in the distance, the beach house starts coming into view. It’s a large, shingle-style house, painted dark blue with a curved roof. The buildings on Halluk are different in style from those on our home island—this island was settled later on, and a lot of the houses on this shore were built to be vacation homes, so they’re not set up for multiple families to live in together year-round. Ourfikaonly bought this place a few years before I moved in, and while the house is a little smaller than our Saroanfikarig, it’s also nicer and more modern on the inside. Bigger bathrooms, a new kitchen, and painted walls instead of the wood and exposed brick we have at home.

We walk the rest of the way in silence. After a few minutes, we near the front steps, where Kieran finds the lockbox under the porch for the key. I have a moment to take it in: the gentle roar of the ocean and the cool air on my face. I haven’t been here since the summer. It’s too dark to see now, but behind the house is a view of the beach. On the other side of the hill are the woods leading to the quarry and, not far from that, the house where Kieran grew up.

He gets the key out and straightens, walking past me to open the door.

“Takka,” I say, and step inside.

The house is dark, but as soon as I’m through the door the scent of it hits me: beach days and bonfire nights, salt and smoke mixing with the soft scent of plaster. I walk to the light switch and flip them on as Kieran follows me inside.

“I should go upstairs to find some clean clothes,” he says, walking past me.

“Wait,” I say, and he stops at the base of the stairs. “Which room are you taking?”

“Oh. Right.”

“You can have the master, I guess?” I offer. “I’ll take one of the smaller rooms down the hall.”

“You sure? I don’t need much space.”

I don’t, either, but it’s more about the space I can keep between us than anything else.

“Yeah, it’s fine.” I smile at him, conveying how extremely fine it is. How much everything is just like it was the day before yesterday.

He nods and disappears upstairs. I unbutton my coat and hang it over the railing, then kneel down to unlace my boots. Once they’re off, I tie my hair out of the way and head upstairs with my bags, turning on the lights as I go.

I pick a small bedroom all the way down the hall—the blue room with a view of the sea. Setting my bags down on the bed, I unzip the duffle and take out a cozy outfit. Navy blue sweatpants Maren brought me from the mainland (“joggers,” she always calls them, and I want to sound cool so I’m trying to do the same) and my loose-knit yellow sweater, once knit for me by Aunt Dagmar. There’s a little sunflower pattern along the sleeves, which makes it one of my favorites. I pull out my painting supplies from the purple suitcase and head out to the hall.

As I reach the stairs, I see the door to the green room is open on a crack, and peer in to see inside. This was my room,thatnight—Fire Week the summer Kieran left for Keist, some ten years ago. I’ve done my best to avoid staying in it ever since, and I’m half-surprised to see that it looks exactly the same. Like a time capsule.

Shit goes down at the north island, Maren said. If only she knew.

I head downstairs to the kitchen, then into the den to turn on the lights. The room is soft and cozy—well-loved after many summer trips here. I go through the chests in the corner of the room to find what I want: blankets, pillows, candles that I set on the coffee table and light.

After about ten minutes, I hear Kieran come downstairs, then the sound of rustling and doors opening and closing in the hall. I walk over to see him putting on shoes and a jacket from the hallway closet, and lean against the door frame.

“Where are you going?”

“I want to head to the store before they close. Get us some real food, instead of whatever carby crap you have in that suitcase.”

“That carby crap is called Triscuits, and I love them. Maren brought them for me.”

“You know, you shouldn’t trust mainland food. They add all kinds of garbage to it.” He gives me a look, and I see his eyes sparkle with a touch of humor.

“Maybe, but the garbage makes the food delicious.”

“I can’t promise whatever I make will be good, but I can promise it’ll be better than Triscuits.”

I smile and watch as he zips up his jacket, checks his pockets for his wallet and keys, and leaves.

When he comes back,a little more than a half hour later, he’s carrying two huge paper bags of groceries. I’m sitting in the den, wrapped in a blanket, my sketchpad leaning against my legs. I’m working on a new drawing—Gabe cooking, a dishcloth slung over one shoulder—that I’m hoping to fill in with watercolors tomorrow. When Kieran walks into the kitchen, I look up.

“Do you want me to help?” I ask.

“I think it’s better if you stay over there.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

---