Chapter Fifteen Two in the Morning
Miu woke to the certainty that she would die if she did not eat pickles.
Not regular pickles. Not the sweet kind, the bread-and-butter kind that her mother used to put on burgers. Dill pickles. Sour. Sharp. The kind that made your jaw clench and your eyes water. She needed them the way she needed air.
Also peanut butter. Creamy. Not chunky. Chunky would be a crime against nature.
Together.
She lay in bed for approximately seven seconds, hoping the craving would pass. It did not pass. It intensified. The cat, who had been sleeping on her feet, opened one eye and judged her.
"I know," Miu whispered. "It's disgusting."
The cat did not disagree.
She reached for her phone. 2:14 AM. The screen was too bright. She squinted, opened Lena's contact, and typed before she could talk herself out of it.
I need pickles.
Three dots appeared almost immediately. Lena was awake. Or she had been woken by the text. Miu didn't know which was worse.
It's 2 AM.
I know. I need pickles. Dill pickles. The sour ones.
A pause. Then: Do you have pickles?
No. That's why I'm texting you.
Why are you texting me about pickles?
Miu took a breath. This was the moment. She could lie. She could say she was making a grocery list. She could pretend this was a normal text between neighbors at 2 AM.
She typed: The baby wants pickles. And peanut butter. Creamy. Not chunky.
The pause was longer this time. Miu imagined Lena staring at her phone, processing the words, deciding whether to respond or pretend she had fallen back asleep.
Then: Together?
Yes.
That's disgusting.
I know. Please.
Another pause. Miu could almost hear Lena thinking. The logistics. The nearest 24-hour store. The last jar of pickles on the shelf. The cashier who would judge her.
I'll be back.
Miu set down her phone. Her heart was pounding. The craving was still there, sharp and urgent, but underneath it was something else. Something she didn't want to name.
She sat up in bed. The cat readjusted. The apartment was dark and quiet. Somewhere upstairs, Lena was putting on shoes.
---
Twenty-three minutes later, Lena knocked.
Miu opened the door. Lena stood in the hallway wearing sweatpants, a hoodie that said Thomson Group in small letters, and the expression of a woman who had just fought a raccoon for the last jar of pickles. Her hair was escaping its ponytail. Her eyes were slightly wild.
She held up a plastic bag. "Dill pickles. Creamy peanut butter. Also saltines, because the cashier said pregnant women like saltines."
Miu stared at her. "You talked to the cashier?"
"She was very informative. She also said to tell you that ginger candies help with nausea, and that her third child only craved gravel."
"Gravel?"
"Apparently." Lena stepped inside. Kicked the door shut. "I didn't buy gravel. I drew a line."
Miu took the bag. Her hands were shaking. She pulled out the pickles—a glass jar, condensation on the outside, the sour smell already leaking through the lid. Then the peanut butter. A fresh jar, the seal still intact.
"You went to the 24-hour grocery," Miu said.
"Yes."
"In East Vancouver."
"Yes."
"At 2 AM."
Lena's jaw tightened. "You said please."
Miu looked at her. The sweatpants. The messy hair. The slightly wild eyes. The woman who had gotten out of bed, driven across the city, and bought pickles and peanut butter at 2 AM because Miu had said please.
"I'm going to eat these now," Miu said. "You're going to watch. And you're going to pretend it's normal."
"I make no promises."
---
They sat on the couch. Miu opened the jar of pickles. The sour smell hit her nose, sharp and perfect. She pulled out a spear, grabbed a spoon, and opened the peanut butter.
Lena watched with the expression of a nature documentarian observing something that should not exist.
Miu dipped the pickle into the peanut butter. Took a bite.
The world stopped.
The crunch. The sour. The salt. The creamy peanut butter coating her tongue. It was the best thing she had ever eaten. It was the only thing she had ever eaten. Everything before this moment had been a pale imitation of food, a shadow on the wall of a cave, and now she had emerged into the light.
She took another bite. Then another.
Lena's face was a study in controlled horror. "You're actually enjoying that."
Miu nodded, mouth full.
"It's not a pregnancy thing. You've lost your mind."
Miu swallowed. "It's delicious. You're wrong. The baby is right."
"The baby is the size of a lime. It doesn't have opinions about peanut butter."
"The lime wants pickles."
"The lime is a tyrant."
Miu took another bite. Her eyes were burning. She blinked. The burning didn't stop. Tears were running down her face.
Lena leaned forward. "Miu. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." Miu wiped her face with the back of her hand. The tears kept coming. "I'm just—it's good. It's really good."
"You're crying over pickles."
"I'm crying because—" She stopped. Took a breath. The tears were embarrassing. The craving was embarrassing. The fact that Lena had driven across the city at 2 AM was embarrassing. Everything was too much. "I don't know why I'm crying. I'm just... crying."
Lena's expression shifted. The horror faded. Something else replaced it—softer, uncertain, like she was looking at something she didn't understand but wanted to.
"Hormones," Lena said.
"Don't."
"It's normal. Dr. Laurent said—"
"I know it's normal. I don't want it to be normal. I want to eat pickles without crying. I want to be a person. I want—" The tears came faster. She set down the pickle. Her hands were sticky with peanut butter. "I want to stop feeling everything all the time."
Lena was quiet. Then she moved.
It wasn't smooth. It wasn't graceful. She shifted on the couch, turned toward Miu, and opened her arms. The movement was stiff, uncertain, like she had read about hugs in a book and was trying to replicate the instructions.
Miu stared at her.
"I don't know what I'm doing," Lena said. "But you're crying. And I'm here. And I don't—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I don't want you to cry alone."
Miu fell into her.
It was awkward. Lena's arms were at the wrong angle.
Miu's face pressed into Lena's shoulder, which was bony and smelled like laundry detergent and something else—something clean and warm.
Lena's hand came up, tentative, and settled on Miu's back.
The other hand stayed somewhere near Miu's elbow, not quite touching.
They held like that for a moment. Two people who had never hugged each other, figuring out the geometry.
Miu's tears soaked into Lena's hoodie. Lena's hand started moving—small circles on Miu's back, hesitant but steady.
"I'm getting peanut butter on your hoodie," Miu said into her shoulder.
"I don't care."
"I'm crying."
"I know."
"You went to the store at 2 AM."
"I know."
"You bought pickles and peanut butter."
"I know, Miu."
Miu pulled back. Not far. Just enough to see Lena's face. Lena's eyes were bright. Her ears were red. Her hair was still escaping its ponytail.
"Thank you," Miu said.
Lena's hand was still on her back. She didn't pull it away. "You don't have to thank me."
"I do. I really do." Miu wiped her face. Her hands were still sticky. "I'm a mess."
"You're pregnant. There's a difference."
Miu laughed. It was watery, half-choked, but it was real. "That's what my mother said."
"Your mother is very smart."
"She threatened to poison you."
"She also said I look at you like her husband looked at her."
Miu's heart stopped. "You remember that?"
"I remember everything."
They were close. Too close. Miu could see the flecks of gold in Lena's eyes, the way her breathing had changed—slower, deeper, like she was trying to stay very still.
Miu pulled back. Grabbed the pickle. Took a bite.
Lena watched her. "You're eating it again."
"The baby wants it."
"The lime," Lena said, "is going to have very strong opinions."
Miu smiled. The tears had stopped. The craving was satisfied. But something else was there now—something that had been growing for weeks, something she had been refusing to name.
She named it anyway. In her head. Quietly. Where no one could hear.
Oh, she thought. Oh no.
She ate the rest of the pickle. Lena watched. The cat watched. The apartment was warm and small and smelled like peanut butter and sour pickles.
"Same time tomorrow?" Lena asked.
"Let's hope not."
"But if it is."
Miu looked at her. At the sweatpants. The messy hair. The hand that was still resting on the couch, close enough to touch.
"If it is," Miu said, "I'll text you."
Lena nodded. Stood up. Walked to the door.
"Lena."
She turned.
Miu wanted to say something. Something about the hug. Something about the way Lena's hand had felt on her back. Something about the way she had said I don't want you to cry alone.
What came out was: "There's peanut butter on your hoodie."
Lena looked down. A smear of peanut butter was visible on her shoulder, where Miu's face had been.
"I know," Lena said.
She left.
Miu sat on the couch. The cat jumped into her lap. The pickle jar was open on the coffee table. The peanut butter was open. The saltines were unopened.
She picked up her phone. Looked at the time. 2:47 AM.
She typed: I'm sorry about the peanut butter.
A response came immediately: I'm not.
Miu stared at the screen. Her heart was doing something it had never done before. Or maybe it had been doing it for weeks, and she was just now noticing.
She typed: You're weird.
You've mentioned.
I'm going to sleep now.
Goodnight, Miu.
Goodnight, Lena.
She set down the phone. The cat purred. The apartment was quiet.
Upstairs, Lena sat on her couch. The peanut butter was still on her hoodie.
She didn't wash it off. She sat there, in the dark, with the smell of pickles and peanut butter on her clothes, and thought about the way Miu had cried into her shoulder.
The way she had laughed. The way she had said I want to stop feeling everything all the time.
Lena understood that. She had been trying to stop feeling things for thirty-three years.
But she was starting to think that maybe, with Miu, feeling things wasn't the worst thing in the world.
She pulled out her phone. Opened Miu's contact. Stared at the name.
She typed: The lime is very demanding.
Three dots appeared. Then: The lime is your fault.
Technically, the lime is the clinic's fault.
You own the clinic.
...Fair.
Goodnight, Lena.
Goodnight, Miu.
Lena set down the phone. The peanut butter was drying on her hoodie. She didn't care.
She fell asleep on the couch, smelling like pickles and something that felt like the beginning of everything.