Junia Baker's Journal

Chapter One

"You're so young, Junia. I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me," Benji muttered, shaking his head as though trying to banish a swarm of thoughts. "This isn't okay—what we're doing isn't okay. Maybe in another world where I didn't know her, it would be. But it's not another world, is it?" His words came in fragments, like a man caught in a storm, each phrase battling the next. His turmoil was palpable, and I felt its weight pressing against my chest.

What was happening? What had I done? My thoughts spun wildly. Had I finally pushed him over the edge? Was he done with me?

"Nothing is wrong with you!" I protested, my voice rising defensively. Desperation laced my words. Despite all the yelling and turmoil between us, the idea of him walking away—of him choosing her instead of me—felt unbearable. My heart pounded in my ears at the mere thought of it.

I needed him. Needed him like air, like water. When he wasn't with me, it felt like my lungs were collapsing, the world growing colder and still. Birds stopped singing, the sun refused to rise—it was as if the universe ground to a halt without him.

Benji scratched at his beard, avoiding my gaze. "No. No, there is something wrong with me, Junia. Look at us. This is insane if you really stop to think about it."

I stared at him, my body burning with heat. Steam might as well have been pouring out of my ears. Why couldn't he see how much I needed him? Why was he pulling away now? His words cut deeper with each passing second.

"So, what?" I snapped, my voice trembling with anger and heartbreak. "You hate me now? You're done with me? You never want to see me again? Is that it?" I glared at him, my eyes wide and wild. I wanted him to feel my pain, to understand what he was doing to me. "You're so smart, so grown-up—what's your plan? Huh? How's that supposed to work?" My voice cracked as I fired question after question, goading him. His silence only fueled my fury. "Are you finally going to leave her too?" My words dripped with venom, but beneath the anger was fear. Fear that I'd lose him. Fear that he'd choose her.

Rage bubbled inside me, threatening to consume me whole. I wanted to scream, to thrash, to claw at anything I could reach. How could he make me feel this way? So small. So helpless. So... young.

Until this moment, Benji had always made me feel special—mature, even. But now? Now, I felt like a child throwing a tantrum.

Three years ago, in 2000, my mother met Benjamin. They crossed paths at a bar during one of her frequent nights out with friends. She was drunk off her ass, as she often was back then, and he was seated alone at the far end of the bar nursing a beer. At 36, my mother still had an air of youthful charm that drew people in, even when her life was a mess. Benji was 31 and had that rugged simplicity about him—an easygoing demeanor that complemented her chaos.

She always said that night felt different, even before she saw him. She claimed she knew her future was in that bar, like some cosmic alignment was at play. When he sent over an Amaretto Sour, her favorite drink, she said it felt like the opening scene of a rom-com. According to her, the rest of the bar faded into the background; it was just the two of them under a spotlight.

She waited a couple of months before introducing him to me. She wanted to be sure he was serious, and maybe she worried how I'd feel about someone new after Dad's passing.

The first time I met him, I'd just come back from my best friend's house. We'd stolen a few wine coolers from her older brother, so I was tipsy and trying hard not to show it.

"Junia!" my mom called from the living room, her words slurred. "This is Benji!" She beamed up at him from where she sat on the carpet, hiccupping mid-sentence. "Benjamin," she corrected herself, patting his thigh affectionately.

He smiled warmly and waved at me, his demeanor so casual it threw me off guard. I took in the scene: the beer bottles, the ashtray crowded with cigarettes, the faint haze of smoke hanging in the air.

"Hi, Benji," I said quickly, before slipping away to my room. I didn't know it then, but I'd never call him Benjamin. From that moment on, he was just Benji.

Over the next few months, he was at our house almost every day. I got used to him being there, and before long, I couldn't imagine our home without him.

Benji brought balance to my mom's chaotic world. After Dad died, she struggled to keep a job and stay on top of bills. Her partying habits didn't help. But with Benji around, things calmed down. She even held a job for nine months before settling as a waitress at a local restaurant. Benji, who worked as a sorter at a recycling facility, helped where he could, pitching in for rent or groceries when things got tight. He wasn't wealthy by any means, but he was dependable.

Holidays and birthdays with Benji felt different—better. On his 33rd birthday, Mom and I decided to get him something special to show our appreciation: a record player. It wasn't fancy, but we paired it with a few classic records we knew he loved.

When we gave it to him, he spent five minutes hugging us and saying it was the nicest gift he'd ever received. Moments like that made it easy to like him.

One of my favorite memories with Benji was when he picked me up from school one afternoon. I was sixteen, and he showed up in his old green Volkswagen Golf, holding a small, green gift box tied with a white ribbon—slightly crooked, like he'd tied it himself.

"What's this?" I asked, curious.

"Open it and find out," he said, grinning.

Inside was a keychain of a Morpho Menelaus butterfly. Its iridescent blue wings shimmered in the light.

"It's nothing fancy, but it reminded me of you," he said.

"Thanks for thinking of me." I smiled, attaching it to my keys right then and there.