Keeping It Fluid -40

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It started with a craving.

Not for chocolate or chips or even something halfway normal.

Yogurt.

And pickles.

I stood in the kitchen in my oversized hoodie and sleep shorts, barefoot on the cold tile, staring down the two items on the counter like they were part of some twisted science experiment. My stomach wasn't even that big yet—barely a bump—but my appetite was on a whole different level. And this morning? It wanted sweet and sour, creamy and crunchy. Together.

I twisted the pickle jar open with a satisfying pop, then grabbed the tub of vanilla yogurt from the fridge.

Lily looked up from her coloring at the table and squinted. "Wait... are you putting those together?"

"Yup." I grabbed a spoon, scooped some yogurt into a bowl, and gently plopped in a couple of sliced pickles. "I can't stop thinking about..."

"That's gross," Lily cut in, making a gagging sound. "Like, that's what aliens would eat."

Sam wandered in with his usual cereal, half-awake. "What's going on?" he mumbled, then stopped when he saw what was in my bowl. "Oh no. Oh no."

"It's a thing," I said defensively, taking a cautious bite. "Yogurt and pickles. Don't judge."

Sam held up his hands like I was about to throw it at him. "That's not food. That's a prank."

I chewed slowly, waiting for the flavor explosion. It was... weird. But also not awful. Actually, kind of good in a confusing way.

"Huh," I said, surprised. "It works."

Lily clutched her stomach. "You're gonna hurl. And when you do, I'm not helping."

Mom came in right then, sipping coffee and clearly already bracing for whatever nonsense was happening. She glanced at the bowl, then at me.

"Yogurt and pickles?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

I nodded.

She took another sip, then shrugged. "Honestly, that's pretty mild. When I was pregnant with Lily, I used to dip pancakes in soy sauce."

Lily's jaw dropped. "You did what?!"

Mom grinned. "And I liked it."

Sam shook his head. "We're doomed."

By the time afternoon rolled around, I wasn't hungry anymore—just thirsty.

Not normal thirsty, though. I wanted something fizzy... but also tangy. Something with a little bite to it.

I opened the fridge and stared like I was cracking a safe. After a moment, I grabbed a can of lemon-lime soda. Then the orange juice. And finally, the jar of pickles.

Just a splash, I told myself, pouring a little pickle juice in like it was some secret ingredient in a fancy mocktail. I stirred it with a spoon and took a sip.

It was... weird. Bright. Sour. Kinda addictive.

I carried my strange little science experiment into the living room, plopped onto the couch, and sipped it slowly while Lily and Sam played a game on the floor. Too caught up in their game, neither of them noticed I was sipping what might actually be classified as a war crime in some countries.

But Mom did.

She walked in with a basket of clean laundry and slowed as soon as she saw me. Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in a judging way—just like she was trying to figure out what, exactly, was in my glass.

"What are you drinking?" she asked.

"Don't laugh," I warned, holding it up like a trophy. "It's orange juice, Sprite... and a little pickle juice."

She blinked once, then snorted. "I'm not gonna laugh. That actually tracks."

I raised an eyebrow. "Tracks?"

She set the basket down and sat next to me with a grin. "When I was pregnant with Sam, I went through a phase where I mixed cranberry juice and sardines together. Thought it was gourmet."

I gagged dramatically. "That's worse."

She laughed. "I'm just saying—I get it. Something about growing a human turns your taste buds into chaos."

I took another sip and shrugged. "It's not that bad. I feel like a mad scientist, but it kinda hits the spot."

"Well, enjoy it while it lasts," she said. "Two weeks from now you'll probably gag just thinking about it."

"I'm starting to think pregnancy is just one long, slightly gross science experiment," I muttered.

Mom smiled, brushing a bit of hair from my face. "Pretty much."

Later that afternoon, the sun hung low and golden in the sky. It wasn't too hot—just the kind of warm that made everything feel a little softer, a little slower. The grass was cool beneath my feet as we stepped into the backyard, and for the first time all day, I felt like I could actually breathe.

Sam tossed a soccer ball into the air and caught it. "You playing?"

I glanced down at my belly—not much of a bump yet, just a subtle curve that only I really noticed. Still, I rested a hand there out of habit. "Maybe a little. If I fall over dramatically, pretend I meant to."

Sam grinned and passed the ball to me gently. "Deal."

Lily had already claimed the driveway with a rainbow of chalk scattered around her like treasure. "I'm gonna draw a dragon eating a burrito," she announced. "For the baby."

"That feels weirdly appropriate," I said.

I tapped the ball back to Sam—not hard, just enough to keep it moving. He gave a mock cheer. "Nice! Still got it!"

I smirked. "You're just scared I'll beat you."

What followed was less soccer and more creative passing and exaggerated dodges. Nothing fast. Nothing serious. Sam would shout "GOAL!" every time the ball rolled two inches past me, arms thrown up like he'd just won the World Cup.

Lily eventually called out, "Hey! Come see this!"

I jogged over, a little winded but smiling, and crouched to see her drawing. It definitely looked like a dragon. The burrito part was... questionable. Possibly a log. Or a rolled-up sock.

"For your baby," she said proudly. "So it knows we're weird early on."

I laughed softly. "That's... perfect. And mildly terrifying."

We all ended up sprawled across the grass not long after, staring up at the sky. Heads close together. Shoulders brushing. The clouds drifted slowly overhead, lazy and shapeless, like they didn't have anywhere to be either.

Sam pointed upward. "That one looks like a chicken wearing sunglasses."

Lily squinted. "That's just a blob."

I closed my eyes and smiled. "A very fashionable blob. Let him have his moment."

The breeze was light, brushing across my skin. The air smelled like warm grass and something faintly sweet from the neighbor's yard.

And for once—no cravings. No nausea. No stress or nerves or that weird feeling like my whole life had shifted off its axis.

Just me, my little siblings, and a quiet moment I didn't know I needed.

By the time the sun started dipping low and the air cooled down to that perfect, end-of-day softness, the smell of smoke drifted through the backyard.

Not the scary kind.

The delicious kind. Or... it used to be.

Dad was parked by the grill in full backyard command mode, his "Grill Sergeant" apron tied around his waist like battle armor. He had one hand on his hip and the other gripping a pair of metal tongs like he was conducting a symphony of sizzling meat. Ribs lined the grill, slowly caramelizing in their sticky glaze while fat crackled over open flame.

"This right here," he announced, pointing his tongs skyward, "is how real barbecue is done. No shortcuts. Just flame, patience, and a little bit of my secret rub."

"Is that just brown sugar and garlic again?" Sam asked from his spot on the porch rail.

Dad gave him a fake glare. "It's love, son. Love and top-secret rib science."

Normally, I'd be halfway across the yard already, hovering near the grill with a paper plate in hand, waiting to be first in line. Barbecue ribs were sacred—smoky, tender, melt-off-the-bone perfection. I'd eat them with my fingers and wear the sauce like battle paint.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the second that sweet, smoky scent hit my nose, it was like getting sucker-punched in the gut with a handful of burning sugar.

My stomach dropped—like missing a stair in the dark. Heat flushed through my chest, then twisted into a knot of slow-motion dread. I froze in place, squeezing the water bottle in my hand like it could anchor me to the earth.

"Emily?" Lily asked from the edge of the driveway, where she was still coloring. "You okay?"

I nodded too quickly, like if I nodded fast enough, my body might believe it. "Yeah. Just—give me a second."

But a second didn't help.

The scent wasn't just drifting anymore—it was crawling into my throat, thick and relentless. That sweet glaze, the burnt edges, even the charcoal smoke—it was all too much. It clung to my hair, to the back of my tongue, to the air itself. I turned away from the grill and took a few slow steps to the edge of the porch, squinting into the breeze, hoping it might carry the smoke somewhere—anywhere—else.

It didn't.

I sat down hard on the porch steps, chest rising and falling too fast, my water bottle pressed to my forehead like a cold compress. I tried to breathe through my mouth, but even that didn't help. The meat fog was inescapable.

The screen door creaked, and Mom peeked out, wiping her hands on a towel. "Dinner's almost—Emily?" Her voice changed instantly.

I waved her off, weakly. "I'm okay. Just... not loving the ribs right now."

She raised a brow and stepped onto the porch. "The same ribs you once tried to stab Sam over when he stole the last one?"

I nodded, not moving. "Apparently, this baby has different values. Like making me gag over everything I once loved."

From behind the grill, Dad called out, "Did someone say gag? What's happening over there?"

"Nothing!" I shouted, trying to keep my voice light. "Love you! Please stop waving that smoke toward me!"

He lifted the tongs like a betrayed artist. "You wound me, kiddo."

"I think the smell just wounded my soul," I muttered.

Lily came over and crouched beside me. "If you're not eating your ribs... can I have your piece?"

I didn't even hesitate. "Take it. Take them all. Tell them I said goodbye."

She whooped with joy and ran back to the grill like she'd won a prize.

I leaned back against the railing and tried to sip my water, but one breath too deep and—

Oh no.

The nausea surged. I turned to the side, gripped the porch railing with one hand, and doubled over.

Dry heave.

Then another. My eyes watered as my stomach lurched in protest, trying to evict something that wasn't even there. I clenched my jaw and rode it out, breathing in shallow gasps through my nose.

From the driveway, Lily shrieked, "SHE'S DYING!" and bolted into the house like the world was ending.

Seconds later, Mom was there—moving fast but calm, dish towel forgotten in her hand. She crouched beside me, one hand on my back, the other brushing hair out of my face.

"Breathe, baby. Just breathe. Don't look at the grill. Don't think about ribs. Think about... clouds. Ice cubes. Fresh laundry."

"I didn't even look at them," I groaned. "I just knew they were there. My stomach staged a protest."

"Classic pregnancy rebellion," she said gently, her hand rubbing circles between my shoulders. "With Lily, I couldn't even smell eggs. Boiled, scrambled, whatever—instant gag reflex."

I blinked at her. "Eggs?"

She nodded. "And with Sam? Bananas. Couldn't even hear one getting peeled without feeling queasy. Your dad had to eat them outside."

I managed a weak laugh. "That's... awful. And kinda hilarious."

She smiled and handed me a fresh glass of water. "It's all part of the ride. One day it's ribs. The next day it's mac and cheese. You just never know what's gonna betray you."

I stared at the grill from the corner of my eye like it was a former friend. "I'm scared."

From his post at the barbecue, Dad shouted, "Do I save you a plate or hand it all to Sam?"

"I'll eat it!" Sam yelled.

"Tell him if he waves a rib at me, I'll throw up directly onto his sneakers," I said, deadpan.

The screen door creaked again. Lily peeked out, cautiously. "Do you want some pickles?"

I groaned. "Maybe later. If I live."

Mom laughed softly and sat down beside me. "Hormones are wild, huh?"

I leaned my head on her shoulder, still sipping my water. "I miss loving food."

"You'll love it again. After this baby decides to stop using your stomach like a mood ring."

The grill finally quieted as Dad pulled the last of the ribs onto a big platter, steam curling off the glazed meat like a victory flag. He set it in the middle of the patio table with a proud grin and a dramatic, "Dinner is served!"

Everyone cheered. Sam dove in first. Lily grabbed two ribs and mumbled "thank you" with her mouth already full. Mom passed around paper plates while balancing her sweet tea like a pro.

I sat at the far end of the table, still slightly traumatized by the meat fog, with my own plate: an egg salad sandwich, cut in half diagonally, resting politely on the paper like it had no idea it was about to disappoint me.

It wasn't that I hated it. I liked egg salad. Normally. It was safe. Soft. Chill.

I took one bite.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Then stared at it like it had personally betrayed me.

Something was missing.

I didn't know what it was yet—but the craving was already building in my throat like a storm. My tongue was saying no, but my brain was yelling ketchup. Loudly.

Without saying a word, I stood up, walked into the house, and went straight to the fridge. The ketchup bottle was waiting for me, bright red and smug. I grabbed it, came back outside, and sat down like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Lily noticed first.

Her eyes widened. "Emily..."

Sam dropped his rib mid-bite. "Don't you dare."

I didn't answer. I just opened the bottle, squeezed a thick, glorious swirl of ketchup across the top of my egg salad sandwich, and took another bite.

And it was perfect.

Tangy. Creamy. A little sweet. My shoulders relaxed like someone had finally turned the static in my brain off.

Mom turned and looked at me with her eyebrows half-raised. "That was fast."

I nodded, chewing. "Something was missing."

Sam stared at me like I'd just committed a felony. "You're eating egg salad. With ketchup."

"And it's amazing," I said, totally serious.

Lily leaned across the table and whispered to Mom, "She's broken, isn't she?"

Mom just smiled and sipped her tea. "Nope. She's just pregnant."

Dad, slicing into a rack of ribs, didn't even flinch. "As long as nobody puts ketchup on my ribs, I don't care what condiment chaos is happening over there."

I took another bite and sighed contentedly. "This baby has weird taste, but it knows what it wants."

Lily wrinkled her nose. "Just wait. Next week it'll be pickles and mustard on pancakes."

I shrugged. "I mean... that doesn't sound terrible."

Sam pushed his chair back. "I'm eating inside tomorrow."

After dinner—and after I swore a legally binding oath never to come within thirty feet of Dad's barbecue ribs again—things finally settled.

The sun had sunk just below the tree line, casting a golden haze across the backyard that made everything feel warm and dreamy, like the world had put on a soft filter. The air was cooler now, with just the faintest smoky smell lingering like a ghost of dinner past, but thankfully not strong enough to trigger another round of rib-related trauma.

Sam was slouched on the porch steps, picking grass and flicking it at nothing. Lily was back at her chalk dragon, now drawing a constellation of tiny stars around its head. "So the dragon's dreaming," she explained, when no one asked.

I was curled up sideways in one of the patio chairs, hoodie zipped halfway over my stomach, cradling the last remnants of peace left by my surprisingly divine egg salad sandwich. A sandwich I would never, ever confess to loving in public. Especially with ketchup.

The screen door creaked open, and Mom stepped out with a satisfied smile and a small red-and-white cooler tucked under one arm like she was presenting a gift to royalty.

"I have a surprise," she said, her voice sing-song.

We all perked up like trained animals.

She popped the lid and reached inside dramatically, like she was unveiling treasure.

"Fudgesicles!" she declared.

Lily gasped so loudly I thought she might actually explode. "YES. I love you. I love you more than dragons."

Sam practically levitated off the steps. "Finally. Something normal."

Mom handed them out like a summer fairy godmother, one by one, saving mine for last. "Here you go, ketchup queen," she said sweetly, placing mine in my hand like it was a fragile relic.

Lily squinted at me, suspicious. "You're not gonna put ketchup on that, are you?"

I stared at her. "What kind of monster do you think I am?"

"A pregnant one," she replied, deadpan.

"Fair," I admitted.

Sam flopped dramatically into the grass. "We're gonna have to put 'no weird condiments' in the baby book, aren't we?"

I unwrapped my fudgesicle and held it up like a royal decree. "No ketchup. I swear. Even this baby has standards."

Lily still watched me with the wary eyes of someone who had been burned before. Not literally, but emotionally.

I took a big bite—cold, rich, chocolatey—and sighed with happiness.

Lily blinked once, then exhaled deeply. "Okay. We're safe."

Mom sat down in the other patio chair, legs curled under her, her own fudgesicle in hand. "You know," she said between bites, "when I was pregnant with Sam, I once dipped a brownie in ketchup."

Sam choked. "MOM. You did what?!"

She shrugged. "It tasted good. I don't make the rules."

"You need help," Sam muttered, wiping imaginary trauma from his forehead.

"I'm your help," she replied cheerfully, licking her fudgesicle.

I grinned, taking another bite. The stars were starting to peek out overhead, one by one. Lily was humming to herself now, her dragon dreamscape glowing in pastel chalk under the porch light.

And for just a minute—no nausea, no weird smells, no worries.

Just us. Chocolate. Laughter. And the sacred promise that ketchup would never touch a fudgesicle.

Probably.