Miguel doesn't speak as he drives us through the midday rush of downtown Neuva York traffic. I keep my head turned to the window, unwilling and unable to perceive even just the blurry outline of him at the edge of my perception. I refuse to acknowledge his existent at all.
The guilt rocks off of him in waves. I'm either choking on it or on my tears, but either way, I'm drowning. I'm fifty feet below the surface.
It's two hours of painful silence until Miguel turns into barren farmland. We drive for another forty minutes before stopping outside a mountainside's forest that's too thick to drive through.
I wipe my eyes and step out of the car. Miguel locks it, stuffs the keys into his jacket pocket, then leads the way into the woods.
He'd picked a secluded spot at the edge of a glade that overlooks a valley. It's surrounded by pines and a few bunnies dart from the base of a tree opposite us. It's quiet, with no sounds other than the birds in the branches and the wind disturbing the leaves. At least he chose a pretty place.
I stop in my tracks when I see the mound of disturbed earth. Miguel gives me space, holding back at the edge of the glade.
I force my feet forward. Beneath this soil, my husband rots. Beneath the rocks and dirt, he is being slowly stolen from me by nature. His hands of which I used to cherish, fertiliser. His smile of which I used to adore with kisses, sunken. He is my every good memory beneath the earth.
I wobble at the edge of his grave. I sink to my knees and bite my cheek until it bleeds. My sobs join the birds.
His headstone is a pine tree, and carved into it is his name. Below that, in messy handwriting, husband and father.
I pick up a sharp stone and, with shaky hands, carve the word beloved.
"Mi vida," I whisper. The rock drops from my fingers and I press my hands on the dirt. My head bows, my tears fall onto his place of rest. "I'm so sorry. I- I should've been there for you. I should've told you that I loved you more. I should've cherished every second." My breath catches in my throat with a cry. "I didn't. Not enough. Not enough."
I stay as long as I can, weeping beside the dirt of his grave. I would've stayed there forever if I could, I would've let the grass grow over me and let the worms make a home in my corpse, but I have a daughter that needs me. I shake off the the urge to be consumed by nature and stand.
Miguel hasn't moved. He doesn't stare, either, standing off in the distance and watching the horizon. The privacy he granted me is a spit in the face. What worth is mercy now? He looks up when I approach on my way back to the car, red eyes finding mine, shadowed by inner conflict and guilt and worry. I turn my gaze away.
"Let's go," I mutter darkly. He silently joins me, not saying a word.
The drive back is just as silent. Dirt cakes my nails. My heart is left behind, still sitting side-by-side with my husband's buried body.
As soon as we park outside my brownstone, I'm out of the car and into the house. I retreat to my room, which is now truly my room, and close the door behind me.
I curl up on Miguel's side of the bed and weep.
Half an hour later, when I'm delirious and dehydrated, there's a gentle knock on my door. I stumble from the bed and, glare at the ready, open it to reveal Miguel. In his hands is a glass of water.
I don't miss the way he winces when my flushed and wet-with-tears face greets him. Instead of saying anything, though, he just holds out the glass of water.
I stare at it. I want to be petty and refuse, I want to stomp on his foot and tell him to get the fuck out of my house. But I can't, because he looks like my Miguel and I'm clinging onto anything that resembles him, and also because my throat really is parched.
Solemn, I take the water and have a sip.
"Do you want me to pick up Rosa?" he quietly asks.
I don't want to be in a car alone with him again. I also know that I can't drive with the state I'm in, and certainly don't want Rosita to get into the car with me like this. Staying in bed and grieving is the only thing I seem to be able to do.
"Fine," I croak. I take a deeper drink and clear my throat. Fresh tears well in my eyes.
Miguel's face twists with deep regret. "I'm sorry-"
I shut the door on his face.
••🕷️••
I stare out the window as the car pulls into the car port. Miguel exits and opens the passenger door for Rosalina to hop out. She drags her feet, tired after a long day. He takes her backpack - comically small on his large body, and bright pink.
Downstairs, the entrance opens and closes. Their footsteps clamber across the hardwood. Rosalina heads to the dining table to do her homework. She pesters the man she believes to be her father to help her with the sums, and he happily obliges.
There's a sour taste at the back of my tongue. He doesn't get to be a good dad. He doesn't get to have Rosalina's love. He shouldn't. He doesn't deserve it, not this man who's lying to her. Not this man who held the truth above my head.
And why am I letting them be alone, anyway? Even if he's Miguel, that doesn't take away what I saw in the alleyway. He's a vampire, a blood-drinker, a monster from the scary stories. He's dangerous.
Driven by fury, by protectiveness, by the indignation of it all, I leave my room and begin down the stairs. I'd plaster on a smile and pretend to be okay if it meant Rosalina didn't spend so much time with this horrible version of Miguel. I just hope she doesn't notice the grief that's swallowing me.
"Where's mom?" I overhear Rosalina ask. I pause on the landing.
"Mom's not feeling well, mija," Miguel answers. "She's a bit sad right now."
"Is she okay?"
I hear him exhale slowly, contemplative in how much the eleven-year-old can rationalise. I catch myself praying he doesn't tell her the truth. I can't handle that on top of everything else. If Rosalina is happy, it doesn't make all my troubles that so bad.
"She will be," he says. I peek around the corner and find them sitting side-by-side at the table, homework momentarily forgotten. He's stroking Rosalina's hair and she's leaning into his side, and the sight makes my heart break with a cacophony of hurt. "Eventually. She needs time to feel better. Can you be extra kind to her?"
Rosalina nods furiously. But then she hesitates. "What if I can't make her happy?"
"She's always happier when you're around." Miguel squeezes her shoulders. "She loves you very much. She'd throw a mountain for you."
At that, Rosalina's concern is washed away with an incredulous giggle. "People can't throw mountains!"
"I dunno," Miguel lightly hums. "I think she could."
"Nuh-uh!"
"Yuh-ha."
Rosalina stands up on her knees. "Nuh-uh!"
Miguel chuckles. "I'm not getting into this with you, papita. You've got homework to do."
Rosalina gives a dramatic groan and falls back down onto her seat with a scowl. Miguel holds out her pen. She grumpily takes it and starts scrawling notes on her homework book.
"Alright." Miguel slides the notebook so he can read. "Where were we?"
Suddenly sick, I quietly head back upstairs.
••🕷️••
Hours after Rosalina and Miguel ate dinner and she was put to bed, I pad downstairs in search of food.
I stop at the kitchen's entrance, cut off by Miguel leaving with a cup of tea. He steps aside for me to pass. I don't look at him as I do.
"Your dinner's in the fridge."
I pause, viciously hating how my heart instinctively warms at the concern in Miguel's voice. Wordlessly, I move to the fridge. His stare lingers.
"I'm gonna do some work," he says, and goes to leave for Miguel's office. He swings back when I gasp. "What is it?"
I'm staring at an empanada - which would usually mean nothing, except that it was Miguel's favourite food. My vision goes blurry with tears.
Miguel's red eyes dart between the plate and I. His baffled expression falls into a look of realisation.
"Carajo," he mutters beneath his breath and turns away. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Para pendejo no se estudia, ha."
I close the fridge with a sniffle. "I'm not hungry." My appetite has vanished.
Miguel hesitates in the kitchen doorway. I stare at the fridge, at the photos covering it, and wait for him to say what he needs to say.
"I thought it would be better," Miguel begins. "I thought... Rosa needs a dad."
I spin around to send him a teary-eyed, withering glare.
"Her dad, not you," I spit. "You're lying to her."
"But she's happy," Miguel points out. I falter. "I just wanted to give her a dad before she has to go through losing one. It's what your Miguel would've wanted." He inhales deeply. His gaze drops. "But if you want me gone, I'll go."
I stare at him. I contemplate it, behind the sick shock of his offer. What it would be like to be in this brownstone with only Rosalina. To have to parent alone through my grief, and the emotional neglect I'm terrified I'd do to my little girl. I'd fall short, I know it.
I don't have any support here. My parents are gone, and Miguel's were disowned years ago. My only friend is Alicia, who's debatable at best. All I had was Miguel, because he was all I needed. But he's gone, now. Standing in his place is... well. It's him, isn't it?
"Is it?" I ask. My voice shakes over syllables. "Is it what he would've wanted?"
"It's what I would want," Miguel answers. "I'd want to have someone supporting my most important people."
I'm crumbling to pieces. I'm brittle and broken and on the floor in shatters. "He really would've wanted this?"
"What do you think he'd want? What do you want?"
My head is spinning too fast. "I don't know."
"Sleep on it," he gently suggests. "Whatever decision you make, I'll follow it." His voice softens. "Good night, Y/n."
I stare at the photos on the fridge. I don't know. I don't know what I want.
"How did he die?" I croak.
When Miguel doesn't answer, I turn back to him.
"Please. Please, at least tell me this-"
Miguel places his cup on the kitchen bench. He rubs his face, digging his palm into the dark skin of his temple. "I can't."
My hysteria grows, as does my offence. "You don't get to make that decision! He was mine!"
"No- no, you don't get it!" Miguel rounds on me. He's riled up now, set off by a trigger I didn't see myself stepping on, seeming bigger than he is. "In every other universe, you die. Do you know how many events I've seen? Do you have an inkling of an idea of how many universes there are with you in them right now?" There's a hard, indiscernible glint in his eyes. "One. There's one. This one - you."
I'm stunned. My eyes follow Miguel as he turns himself away and holds a hand to his mouth in frustration. His energy is sizzling, dangerous. He's steaming with the secrets he's keeping.
"I'm sorry," he says, biting around the word, still fuelled by his temper. "It's just with you- and Rosa, I-" he deflates, slumping into his hand exhaustedly. "When I saw that this version of me died, I couldn't just leave you two without protection."
I swallow dryly. "What does that have anything to do with you not telling me how he died?"
Miguel drops his hand. The look he gives me is one full of melancholy and deep-seeded regret. Like he'd seen me die personally. Like he was one of the Miguel's that lost a Y/n.
"Because the only difference between you and all the other versions of you is what you don't know," he answers. He shakes his head imploringly. "I can't do that again. Not when I watched myself fail to save you over and over."
I have to lean against the bench to keep myself upright. My head is a perpetual explosion, imploding and imploding, endless ruin and endless disbelief. How can my life be like this when it was so normal just a handful of days ago? I thought the world was big before. Now my single universe is a mere speck in an ocean of realities.
"Tell me how Miguel died," I say. "Tell- tell me how I die, and then we can avoid it."
Miguel steps toward me. "Y/n-"
"Tell me," I insist. "You've kept enough from me already."
"You shouldn't-"
"Miguel!" I plead. "This is my home. My daughter. If you're going to be here, then I have to know!"
Miguel, growing frazzled again, opens his mouth to argue. We're interrupted by a small, timid voice before he can.
"Why are you fighting?"
We spin around and find Rosalina at the kitchen entrance, face taut with worry and clutching her stuffed lion. My heart crashes to my stomach.
"Rosita." Miguel's first to regain himself, and his apologetic, soft voice breaks me from my shock. He approaches the little girl and crouches down before her. "I'm sorry, mi niña, did we wake you?"
It's unfair how effortless he is at being a dad. She isn't even his.
Rosalina nods, her pout big and pronounced and making guilt strike me through the heart. I finally manage to make my legs move, and I'm kneeling right beside Miguel.
"Sorry, honey," I murmur. I gently tug on her lion's leg with a smile that I hope calms her down. "We're just having a little disagreement."
Rosalina's watery eyes glance unsurely between us. "Is it because mom's sad?"
"No-" I go to lie, to shake my head, but Miguel cuts me off.
"It is," he answers, and I'm only half-appalled at him telling the truth (how can I dismiss it when I've been furious at him for lying to Rosalina?). He cups Rosalina's cheek - a palm so massive against a face so small, so soft. "But we're working on making her happy again, aren't we, papita?"
Rosalina's smile is wobbly. She nods, happier. She throws her arms around Miguel's neck, has to leap for the hug, and he hugs her back just as quickly.
He looks at me sideways, through his lashes, red eyes dark and brooding and I know - I know exactly that no matter what he said before about leaving upon my command, he'll fight just as hard to stay.
Rosalina reaches her arm out for me. I hesitate, but it only lasts only a second, and then I'm in the hug; a tentative hand between Miguel's shoulder blades, my arm around my daughter's back. And I'm uncomfortable, but it only lasts a second, because he smells like Miguel and he feels like him, and my resistance breaks. I squeeze them both tight.
My Rosalina, and not-quite-my-Miguel.
When our hug ends and, content and reassured, Rosalina heads back to bed, I remain crouching. Miguel stands, retreats deeper into the kitchen. Rosalina's my everything. How can I fail her? How can I take away her father? Her father that isn't really her father?
I bow my head and loop my arms behind my neck. My life is in shambles and I don't know how to keep it all together. I don't know how to keep myself together. I'm scattered. All I can do is silently weep.
Behind me, Miguel gives a slow, resigned sigh. "He died being Spider-Man."
I look up at him. "What?" I say through a throat thick with tears.
"Spider-Man," Miguel repeats reluctantly. "Miguel was Spider-Man. You always die by trying to save him."
My lips part in devastating shock. "Oh."
I'm sent pivoting back into a realm of emptiness. I don't know what to do with this information. How many times have I seen Spider-Man save Neuva York? I just assumed that Miguel was so busy with his work at Alchemax. How could he not tell me?
I'm too numb to be angry. I can't feel anything anymore. I am a husk of my former self, wrung and spliced.
Miguel holds out a hand. I stare at it for a few long, slow beats before sliding my palm into his. He lifts me to my feet with ease. I can't look him in the eyes, so I stare at his chest instead. His build swallows me, and yet he feels small.
"You always got shot." He touches the tip of his finger to below my collarbone. "Right here."
My gaze drifts down to his finger. His hand shakes. Almost imperceptibly, but it does.
I try to find reason in him. If I lost Miguel and Rosalina and there was a dimension where they both existed, where they didn't have me, would I jump at the chance to have my family again?
It troubles me to think that I would find that dimension. It troubles me deeply.
His hand falls away. I look up at him and my breath hitches at the absolute wretched expression on his face. He resembles a man who's lost everything.
"Good night, Y/n," he says again, and this time with finality.
I watch him go, puzzled and empty and exhausted. I watch him until he disappears into his office.
My hand touches the spot below my collarbone.