Wedding of the Century update (Patreon)

“Hey,” he said, lowering the camera, coming closer step by step. Afraid Mary Jane would flip, demand to know what he was doing, why he was breathing her air, looking at her, even thinking about touching her. Peter didn’t think she’d do that—but it seemed a lot more likely than the reality that he was here, now, with her. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“How would you know?”

Peter ran his hand through his hair. “You’re Mary Jane Watson. If you’re not okay, what chance do the rest of us have?”

“Oh geez.” She fell sideways until she was leaning against the side of the podium, her eyes oceans of unshed tears. “Are you married?”

Peter started to lift his hand, then lowered it. It would’ve felt insensitive, showing off his empty finger when her engagement ring had just been stripped away. Like it’d been made of something toxic. “No.”

“Why not?”

Peter heaved a sigh. “Take your pick… never met the right girl, mainly.”

“And who is the right girl to you, Mr… oh God, I’ve really said all this without knowing your name.”

“Peter Parker.”

Mary Jane held out her hand. “Mary Jane Watson.”

Peter took it. So small. It felt empty, in a way. Like there should be more there, some spark, some strength, but he’d managed to miss touching that. The thing he should’ve felt was buried deep and not coming up.

“Peter Parker, who is the woman you want to marry?”

“Shoot—if I knew that…”

“Pretty?” Mary Jane prompted him. “Rich? Good family? Cat person?”

“I really don’t want to sound particular or undemanding… or demanding either, I suppose… it’s just there’s really only one thing that matters and it’s hard to find, for me at least. I’m not saying it’s a sixth finger on someone’s right hand or anything, it’s just… hard to tell, except I know if it’s not there, I couldn’t possibly be happy with someone.”

Mary Jane leaned forward, her wedding dress straining drastically to allow for flexibility it’d never been meant to have. “What’s that?”

“She wants to be with me. I mean, she absolutely does not want to be anywhere else, no matter what.” Peter leaned against the stage. It was odd to think that a moment ago, he’d been so frightened of giving offense to Mary Jane. Now he was half-convinced he could reach right out to her and she wouldn’t be against it at all. “I was raised by my aunt and uncle. They didn’t have much. Less than much, a lot of the time. But whenever my Aunt May was sad or hurting or just lonely, my uncle was there. I mean, there was no place he would rather be. And the same thing for her. If he was up, if he was down, if he just wanted to talk… So many of my friends have gotten married over the years and it’s like they do it just to have kids or have sex or be normal… I suppose they’re happy enough. But I couldn’t imagine sharing my life with someone who wouldn’t…”

He faltered.

“Go on,” Mary Jane said, her voice a rasp. He looked at her and saw those tears silently working their way out of her eyes, staining her cheeks in little streams of light.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be talking like this with you—I mean, it was this morning, you’re not… you don’t want to hear this.”

“No, no, please.” Mary Jane wiped her tears with the back of her hand, staining the cuff of her wedding dress.

“What do my troubles matter? You got left at the altar.”

“They matter to me. Tell me. Please.”

Peter drew in a deep breath. “I’ve been depressed. We all have, right? And some of my friends, they just cannot bring it to their wives. I mean, they refuse to. Can’t look weak. My Uncle Ben was like that, but only with me, I was a kid. But when they thought I wasn’t there… sometimes she’d hold him. Just hold him. I don’t know, I’m no marriage counselor—but what else is there? Someone you want to hold, when she needs it. Someone who’ll hold you, when you need it. If I found a woman like that, I’d marry her tomorrow.”

He stopped avoiding Mary Jane’s eyes and saw that they were liquid, bright and gleaming, tears starting to fall with no gentleness. They shook and heaved their way out of her, vibrating her entire body, Mary Jane’s chin quivering as she made a low, despondent howl like a wounded animal.

Peter didn’t think. He took her in his arms and tried to hold her steady, stilling the tremors that went through her sobbing body. His camera was in the way—he slid it to the side of his hip, letting Mary Jane crush herself against him, trying to bury her quivering form in whatever warmth he could offer, like she’d been stranded in the Arctic and he was the only heat source she could find.

Unthinking, feeling only a desire to tend this open wound he’d been faced with, Peter held her. His hands stroked over her back. He shifted her in his arms, rhythmically rocking her from side to side, as if to dislodge her sobs so they could all flow out of her unabated. She drove her face into his chest and held it there, her body hitching while her burning tears found a home in the front of his shirt.

Peter cooed sweet babble to her, telling her that it would be alright, that it was okay, that she was safe, that she could breathe. He’d been on the other end of this enough times to know what she needed to hear. And a few times, he’d done this for Aunt May. His childhood truly gone when he was as much comfort to his parent as she was to him.

He didn’t know which was worse: the loss that needed comfort or trying to give comfort that wasn’t enough. Mary Jane Watson was a virtual stranger, a complete unknown to him. Yet he still felt like giving anything to take her pain away.

No, the worst thing was not being able to get comfort, not being able to give it. Whatever this was… some elliptical celebrity encounter that would end as soon as it had started… he was here. He could say something, do something. So he did.

He ran his hand through her fiery hair, giving her whatever dull sensation she would find comforting, and whispered in her ear “I’m here. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

It was like her grief was all that was holding her up. With it ebbing, the strength went out of her body. She couldn’t stay upright. Peter began lowering her to the ground, then thought he couldn’t possibly put her on the floor—Mary Jane Watson in her wedding dress…

He sat down against the stage, Mary Jane in his lap, and started to shift her over to sit next to her, but she threw her arms around his body and held him tight.

She was sniffling now, not sobbing. A little whisper of exhale against his sternum the only real sign that she was even alive. The pain seemed to have been burnt out of her, leaving only smoke.

Peter moved his hand through her hair to her pulse, checking it. It was slow but steady. Mary Jane reached up, took his hand, and clutched it to her chest. Squeezing it with what little strength remained in her exhausted body. Peter rubbed the supple skin of her hand with his thumb. He was only somewhat surprised when Mary Jane began to snore.

Well, he thought, trying to even think quietly. Now what?

He’d picked up enough rent money as a cheap wedding photography to know how stressful they were on the bride. More than one he’d caught nodding off the moment the groom drove her off. A good sound rest was probably exactly what Mary Jane needed.

Only she was having it in his lap.

Peter laid his head back against the stage. It wasn’t that uncomfortable. Mary Jane was maybe a hundred and ten pounds, the wedding dress making her as soft as a teddy bear. The linoleum tiles and balsa stage weren’t exactly a feather bed, but he’d slept in rougher places…

Mary Jane would probably wake up in a few minutes. He couldn’t be that comfortable to sleep on. She’d probably be embarrassed as hell—Peter would tell her it was no big deal—someone would probably yell at him, Mary Jane had to have people on the payroll to yell at people like him for things like this. He’d beat a retreat and have a hell of a story to tell, if he were the kind of person who told stories like this.

In the meantime… well, he could use a rest himself. Or at least stillness. When was the last time he hadn’t been up late either grading papers or preparing a lesson plan? Between this job or that job, this disaster or that one, he didn’t get much time to just sit and breathe and be…

Peter took a deep breath. Mary Jane didn’t smell so bad either. Didn’t overdo it with the perfume. Only used it to accentuate a note of sweetness that seemed intrinsic to her.

It wasn’t a bad way to sleep; being a comfort to someone, however small. And maybe in five minutes or ten minutes or an hour, she’d tell him to get lost, that she never wanted to see him again. Well, that was in ten minutes.

He shut his eyes. Mary Jane wasn’t much of a weight on him. He’d certainly never get the chance, but he could get used to it.