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When Peter and I broke up, it was maybe the worst pain of my life. I laid in bed, curled up in a ball, for 48 hours straight. I drowned myself in alcohol and comfort food and wished I’d never met that son of a bitch.
“MJ, I-I don’t really have a choice.”
“Of course you do!”
“She’s my little sister, I can’t not go with her and Pepper.”
“Why do you even want to go? You hate Florida!”
“For her, MJ! Tony wanted to save me and now she doesn’t have a dad! I don’t have a choice!”
“I-I can’t go with you, Peter. My job is here, and school, and I can’t leave my niece.”
He glanced at my left hand. “Then I think this is it.”
I looked at my hand, too. At May’s old engagement ring.
I took it off and handed it to him, feeling the pain deep in my bones.
That was years ago. That was back when I had miles of curls, rather than the long bob I maintain now. That was when I rejected makeup and miniskirts and letting any type of emotion show.
Not that I piled on the makeup now, or wore skirts short enough that you could tell me which brand of underwear I was wearing. I stuck to concealing dark circles and maybe wearing a lip gloss, and my tasteful and very comfortable pants.
When Peter left, I’d been in my fifth year of school, pursuing my master’s in psychology.
Now I was 29, a year and a half into practicing clinical psychology, and asking my boyfriend, Harry, to meet me for dinner.
And I was consumed with guilt and anxiety because I was going to hurt him the way Peter hurt me. I was leaving him.
But I wasn’t happy. It’d been two years, and I don’t think I ever truly fell in love with Harry. I don’t think I ever truly fell in love with anybody in the last six years. There’d been my fling with Liz, another fling with a fellow psych student, I’d briefly dated this guy only to find out he was secretly a drug dealer…
Nobody was Peter.
And it was depressing that six years hadn’t helped me find someone else, and I was giving up, honestly. Companionship was nice, but I had my dogs, Tiger and Rascal, and a job that I loved.
Harry: absolutely, Jonesy. 8pm?
Me: works for me. see you tonight.
I hated pretending everything was alright. I wanted so badly to tell him that it was over now, just rip off the band-aid, but it’d been two years.
I couldn’t dump a man over text, especially when we’d been together for two years.
He deserved dinner.
So I got through the rest of my workday, went home, changed for dinner, and met him at our restaurant, in our booth.
He came in exactly seven minutes late (as always) and sat down, smiling at me.
“You look really good tonight, MJ,” he said, kissing me quickly before sitting down across from me.
I gave him as much of a smile as I could muster.
“You okay? You’re shaking.”
I shook my head, brushing him off. “I’m okay.”
“Alright, well, if that’s the case, I wanted to ask you something.”
My stomach sank. Please don’t propose, please don’t propose, please don’t propose.
“Now, I don’t want to make a big deal out of this, but…”
He pulled a small velvet box out of his pocket, and slid it across the table to me.
I was suddenly very cold.
I started to bargain with myself. Harry was warm and safe and kind and good and I could do it, if I had to. I could be his wife and fall asleep with him and find happiness in loveless companionship.
And then, I looked at myself from the outside in, and didn’t recognize who I’d become. What happened to the reckless, passionate flurry of a person I’d been in school? What happened to my ideals and hopes and dreams? Why was I betraying all of that?
“I can’t marry you. I asked you to come to dinner to break up with you,” I blurted.
His face fell.
“I’m- I’m so sorry, I was gonna wait so we could have a nice dinner together and-”
“Open the box, MJ.”
Hesitantly, I reached forwards, hands shaking, and took the box off the table, opening it. There was a key inside.
“I was gonna ask you to move in.”
“I’m so-”
“Why?” he interrupted, eyes becoming glassy. “Why are you breaking up with me?”
“It’s- shit, I- it’s not you. I love you but…I’m not happy and I don’t know why and I just…need to-”
“How long have you been thinking about this?”
I bit my lip, staring at him. “A month.” That was a lie. It’d been three. Three long and guilt-ridden months of back and forth and back and forth.
He scoffed a little. “A month. The last month of our relationship has been- wow.”
“P- Harry, I-I didn’t want to hurt you, but I-”
“No, I get it, MJ.” He took the box back, refusing to meet my eyes. “I hope you find someone that makes you happy.”
He got up and moved to walk away, and then turned around.
“I- please don’t talk to me. Not for a long time.”
“Okay,” I said softly.
He nodded, and then left.
I ended up ordering two drinks, tipping the waitress 40%, and then taking a cab home, feeling like an absolute monster.
Somehow, honouring my ideals had left me feeling just as shitty as languishing in a loveless relationship. It was a lose-lose. Fuck me, right?
When I walked into my apartment, the dogs ran over to greet me. I felt so shitty that I wanted to tell them that I didn’t deserve their love, that I was a terrible person for dumping someone who by all means was a great boyfriend, and I was just the asshole who was hung up on my high school sweetheart.
But instead I accepted their kisses and gave them plenty of ear scratches.
They fell asleep, curled at my feet while I sat on the couch with a bottle of rose and a documentary turned on.
I was starting to doze off when my phone buzzed with a news alert.
SPIDER-MAN SPOTTED IN NYC FOR THE FIRST TIME IN SIX YEARS
I frowned.
Me: ned am I drunk or is peter back in town
Ned: he’s been back for a week
Ned: are you drunk?
Me: harry and I broke up
Ned: oh shit I’m sorry mj
Me: eh it’s fine. all good things must come to an end
Me: so why is Peter back in town?
Ned: Morgan graduated and wanted to move back here
Ned: and you know Peter
Me: yep
Me: how’s the babyyy
Ned: she’s doing well! you’re still coming over for lunch next week right?
Me: yeah
Ned: I’m excited for you to meet her
Me: yeah me too
Me: all of her pictures are s
Before I could send the last text, there was a knock at my window.
I looked up, and had to do a double take.
There was no way Peter remembered where I lived.
I got up, legs wobbly and room starting to spin, and opened the window.
He was an absolute mess. His mask was shredded fabric in his hand, his suit was dirty and tattered. His exposed skin was covered in scrapes and cuts and bruises.
“Em, I know- I know that you…that you hate me and-and you’re right to…but I need your help.”
He all but fell in, so I grabbed him and slowly helped him in, helping him sit down on the couch. It took a crazy amount of focus, considering I had a healthy amount of alcohol in my system, but we got there without stumbling.
“Peter, what happened?”
He shook his head. “Nuthin.”
“You’re clearly high, you’re a goddamn mess- here, look at me.”
I cupped his face in my hands, focusing on his eyes. I swore I could feel electricity coursing through my fingers the second I touched him, a feeling I’d been chasing with no avail for more than half a decade, but I pushed that feeling aside and examined him.
“Your pupils are dilated, your eyes are bloodshot, you’re shaking and slurring, you’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine, I just…I need a nap.”
I sighed, leaning back a little. “I’ll grab you some clean clothes. Take off your suit.”
He smacked his cheat, and the suit loosened around him, falling off of his shoulders and slipping down his torso.
And shit, he was high off of his ass and covered in cuts and bruises but…the first thing I noticed was his tattoo.
A broken black dahlia.
I figured he would’ve gotten it covered up. But there it was.
“Honey, you don’t have to get a tattoo to prove your love to me. The ring is enough.”
“It’s not to prove a point, Em, it’s because you always have a place in my heart.”
He proceeded to squeeze my hand hard enough that I was worried about my bones breaking.
“Clothes,” I muttered to myself, a reminder.
Drunk Me was pining too much to be of any use.
I got up, going to my bedroom to find some clothes.
I had a box under my bed of the things Peter left behind. There was a pair of Hello Kitty pajama pants and a shirt with a bad math joke on it. I grabbed those and went back out to the living room.
Peter was now laying across my cough, eyes half-closed, top half of the suit bunched around his waist.
I handed him the shirt, and I could vaguely hear myself telling him to put it on as I sat down next to his feet, putting the suit the rest of the way off of him. He struggled with the shirt, so I helped him with that, too, ignoring the sparks that flitted across my fingertips as they brushed over his skin.
“Are you gonna tell me what happened?” I asked, helping him with his pants.
He shook his head. “It’s a boring story.”
“Peter, I used to be an editor for the Daily Bugle. I can handle a boring story.”
He looked at me, eyes widening. “Em, you cut off all of your hair.”
I looked down a chuckled a little. “Yeah, a few years ago. It was too much to handle, you know?”
He glanced at the suit, balled up on my coffee table. “I know.”
Not that I’d ever tell anyone this, but he was so beautiful that night. He’d aged since I last saw him, obviously. His hair was shorter and his eyes were more tired, but he was still the same Peter I’d let go six years ago. His skin was moonlit and smooth, and all I wanted was to run my fingers over it, tracing his face and collarbones the way I used to when I was sleepy.
God, he was probably so tired.
“Okay, come on, let’s get you into bed.”
He shook his head. “No, I can…I can go back to May’s.”
“Peter, if you can stand up on your own, I’ll let you go back to May’s.”
He stared at me for a minute, and then sighed, letting his head fall back on the couch. “Okay, you win.”
“Let’s get you into bed,” I said, slipping my hand into his and pulling at his arm, ignoring the way my breath caught in my throat. He slowly got up, leaning on me while I walked him into my guest bedroom.
“Em?” he asked, voice soft and raspy. “Is this really you?”
“Yes, it’s really me.”
“Why are you helping me?”
“Why wouldn’t I help you?”
He stopped, sort of suddenly, almost tripping me. He gave me these big, sparkly, puppy eyes. “I hurt you.” His voice started to break.
“Peter…”
“No, no, I asked you to marry me but then I left you.”
I didn’t know what to say. Half of me thought this was some weird, drunk fever dream.
“Leaving you was the biggest mistake of my life,” he whispered.
“You’re high, and you need to just…sleep this off.”
“Em-”
I started pulling him towards the bedroom again, and managed to get him into bed, pulling the covers up around him.
“I’m gonna go get you a glass of water,” I told him, absent-mindedly pushing a stray curl out of his face.
“Mkay.” He turned into the pillow, nuzzling into it.
“You seem a little sleepy there, tiger,” I teased.
Peter nuzzled into my shoulder. “Shut up,” he mumbled, “it’s been a long day.”
I smiled, kissing his temple.
I stood there, staring at him for a moment. God, it was unfair. The whole thing.
If I’d been able to go with him six years ago, would we be married now? Would we be somewhere in Miami with dogs we adopted together and maybe a kid? Would we have come back to New York eventually?
I snapped myself out of it and went back to the kitchen, getting a glass and filling it with cold water.
When I got back to the bedroom, I thought Peter was asleep, so I gently set the glass on the nightstand and started to leave.
“MJ?”
I turned around. His eyes were half-open, face scrunched a little as the kitchen light filtered into the room.
“Can you lay down with me?”
“Peter…”
“I don’t wanna dream about…any of it.”
I bit my lip. I wanted to, so badly, but I knew it’d just hurt in the morning.
It didn’t matter, though. I was still drunk, and Drunk MJ wanted to fall asleep with Peter so that’s what Drunk MJ was going to do.
I laid down on the bed with him, and he pulled me closer, snuggling up to me.
With an exhale, I let myself enjoy it.
One last night of cuddles, I told myself. And then you can let him go for real.
---
When I woke up the next morning, I almost forgot that time had passed. Peter’s arms were wrapped around me, face pressed into my hair. His breathing even had the same rhythm. I’d been slammed six years into the past overnight.
But then I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket.
Right, I was in yesterday’s clothes, and hadn’t put my phone on the charger.
Gently, I moved away from Peter, making sure not to wake him up, and pulled out my phone.
Call from Harry Osborn.
I declined the call and texted him.
Me: hey, I’ll drop off your stuff later.
Harry: that’s not why I called
Me: why did you?
Harry: because I think you’re wrong
Harry: I think we would work if you’d just open up a little more
I stared at his texts for a minute, and then responded.
Me: like I said, I’ll drop off your stuff later
Me: have a good day, harry
“Who was that?”
I shook my head, and then immediately regretted it. I closed my eyes and laid back down facing away from Peter. “Doesn’t matter,” I mumbled.
Peter did the same thing he’d always done, looped an arm around my waist and pulled me closer. I couldn’t let myself sink back into the past this time, though. The events of last night started to come back to me. Peter, high and injured. The sparks, the electricity. The painful nostalgia. All of it.
“Peter, we should get you to-to, um…someone. I, uh, don’t know who to take you to.”
“You don’t have to take me anywhere, you’ve done more than enough.”
He started to get up, and faltered, sitting back down on the bed hard.
I gave him a look. “I don’t think you have much of a choice.”
The sigh he gave sparked a montage of memories. He hated admitting needing help.
“There’s only so much your super healing will do for you.”
“So you’ve told me,” he said, sounding slightly amused.
“Come on.” I got up, rubbing my eyes, the feeling of old crumbly mascara unpleasant on my fingers. “I’ll take you upstate.”
“That’s an hour-”
“I’ve got all the time in the world.”
---
I washed my face and changed before helping Peter down to my car, and then we headed off. I turned on an old Spotify playlist, one I curated the first summer we were together. It was nostalgic as all hell, and I saw Peter start to lighten up. Some of the tension left his shoulders, he stopped fidgeting with his fingers, I even could’ve sworn I saw the lift of a corner of his mouth.
We didn’t speak much on the drive up to the base, but the air started to feel a little thinner. And with it, I started to feel younger, started to feel more comfortable with Peter’s presence.
It began to dawn on me that I hadn’t felt like myself in a really long time. I hadn’t felt like the passionate, fiery, witty girl I’d been. I’d felt like an old woman, destined to die alone.
Peter made me feel like myself.
We got to the base and I helped him out of the car and up the steps, into the building. FRIDAY announced his presence, and immediately people came rushing. He was taken out of my hands and whisked away to the medical wing.
I was left alone in the foyer.
“MJ?”
I wouldn’t have recognized her if it weren’t for all the pictures I’d seen over the years. She was about Peter’s height, long brown hair that fell in waves around her shoulders, and her dad’s eyes.
“Morgan!”
We ran into a hug, squeezing each other tight.
“God, you grew up!” I squealed.
“You cut your hair!”
I laughed, pulling away but still holding her arms, taking her in. Gone were her old colourful pants and sparkly tops. She was wearing a burgundy sweater and some dark wash jeans, and a pair of Doc Martens.
“I love the boots,” I said.
“I knew you would.” She was smiling. Her smile hadn’t changed.
“Oh, I missed you.” I hugged her again. “You have to tell me everything that’s happened in the past six years.”
She giggled. “Well then there’s a lot to catch you up on.” Morgan pulled me further into the base, to the living room, and made us tea as we sat down and started catching each other up.
---
I ended up staying the night. Since they had just moved back into the city, no guest rooms were ready, so Morgan and Pepper set me up in Peter’s bedroom while he was still in the hospital wing overnight.
I’d been in this very bed a million times, so it was super easy to feel comfortable. It smelled familiar, and Peter’s weighted blanket was a welcome luxury. I curled up and let myself drift off.
Dreams were scattered. I couldn’t put a storyline together.
All I remembered in the morning was the feeling of strong arms around me, and the light pressure of lips on my forehead.
Morgan made cheesy omelets for breakfast.
I sat at the island, wrapped in the fluffiest robe known to man, with a messy bun atop my head large enough to have its own gravitational pull. I felt like a sleepy mess, but I didn’t know if I needed more sleep or I just needed to get back to the comfort of Peter’s bed.
Morgan served breakfast, and came and sat next to me.
“So…what’s it like seeing Peter again?”
I dug into the omelet, loading up a fork with ham and melty cheese and eggs. “Do you want my mature, I’m-a-respectable-almost-thirty-year-old-woman answer, or do you want the truth?”
“The truth,” she said, just as I knew she would.
“I feel like myself again. After you guys left, I felt the need to grow up and be the perfect adult. I gave up art, cut off my hair, threw out a lot of my clothes. Being with Peter made me feel 23 again. And-and just saying that makes me feel like a stupid preteen with my head in the clouds but…in all honesty, I never fell in love again after Peter. And I had kind of given up on trying to.” I took a bite of omelet, washing it down with orange juice, hoping the orange juice would wash away six years of emptiness and regret and loneliness, and that’s a lot to ask of your orange juice.
Morgan looked at me, with all the hope of a child whose parents had just announced their divorce. “Do you think you guys will get back together?” I had to remind myself that our relationship was the first one she’d really seen since her dad died. She attached her ideas of love to Peter and I at a young age. It made sense for her to hope for us to get back together, she wanted to believe in love.
I wanted to believe in love, too.
“I don’t know. It-it feels like we could, but it’s been a long time. We’ve been apart for longer than we were together. We might’ve grown apart or- I don’t know. It might not work. We might never have been meant for each other.”
“Do you really believe that?”
I stared into my omelet like it had all the answers. Again, a lot to ask of your omelet.
“No.”
---
I saw Peter later on, when he was let out of the hospital wing. He wandered into the living room while Morgan and I were watching a movie. May was with him, an anxious hand on his back, like she was scared he was going to fall.
He sat down next to me.
“How are you feeling?”
He took a deep breath, nodding, the way you do when the answer is heavy and you don’t wanna have that talk right now. “Better.”
“You look a lot better.”
I caught an exchange of looks between Morgan and May as they watched us interact.
The four of us finished the movie Morgan and I had started. Then we picked another movie. Halfway through, May excused herself, citing her exhaustion. Another twenty minutes in, Morgan excused herself to get some reading in before bed.
That left Peter and I.
There was this natural drift that happened once we were alone. Like our hearts were magnets, pulling towards each other. It started with his arm finding it’s way over my shoulders, progressed to my head on his shoulder, and somehow ended with us dozing off, tangled together on the couch.
I woke up in the early, early hours of the morning, jolted awake by the end of a dream. I managed to wake Peter, too, because I heard his sleepy mumble. “Are you okay?”
“We fell asleep.”
He gave me this lopsided, sleepy smile. “I was sleeping really well.”
There was this moment of silence between us, both of us just enjoying the quiet of the night and the privacy we had, despite being in the middle of the living room.
I wondered if I’d still feel the sparks if I kissed him.
Why wonder?
I leaned down and pressed my lips to his. It was a short, sweet kiss, and then I pulled away, searching his eyes, sparkly despite the dark.
There was an unspoken I love you between us. Neither of us said it, but I felt it, and I knew he did too.
Then he tightened his arms around me and pulled me in closer, and the kiss was suddenly full of six years of longing and passion and missing each other.
We migrated to his bedroom, tangling in his sheets all night long, and I finally, finally felt my chest swell with warmth and happiness for the first time since he left.
---
Months passed. We moved in together again, finding a new apartment that had everything we’d talked about when we were engaged. I grew out my hair and broke out my old sketchbook.
A year passed. We celebrated the end of Morgan’s first year of university with her, and the two of us stayed up all night, tipsy and talking about the stars.
Another year passed. I got the ring back.
Months of wedding planning and stressing over the right dress and when to get alterations and “is this the right colour napkin for our colour scheme?” went by, and then the big day arrived.
“Do you, Peter Benjamin Parker, take this woman, Michelle Jones, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
Peter smiled at me, eyes glassy with happy tears. “I do.”
“Do you, Michelle Jones, take this man, Peter Benjamin Parker, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
I matched his tearful eyes and sappy smile. “Without a doubt. I do.”
“You may now kiss the bride.”
Peter slid an arm around my neck, stepping closer, and pressed his lips to mine.
Finally mine, forever.