After Him, There Was Me

Chicago, Summer 1999

I thought I’d feel free. Instead, I just felt… quiet. I never told anyone why I left him.

Not my friends. Not my family. Not even the ones who used to call me every night just to say “I love you, babe,” while sipping cheap rosé on rooftops with me.

But they don’t call anymore.

Because when I walked away from him, I lost them too. Our entire social circle was stitched into his world—his friends, his cousins, their girlfriends who once called me a sister. I didn’t correct the story they told themselves. Let them believe I was the one who got restless. That I cheated. That I’d moved on before he even packed his things. Let them whisper. I was already drowning in silence anyway.

It’s funny how betrayal can still feel like guilt when no one knows the truth.

That’s what led me here. To this smoky bar on the North Side. To this night—half tipsy, a little hollow, and wearing a dress that said I still had something to prove.

My dress was black satin, ruched at the sides, cut low in the back, and clung to my body like it belonged there. My heels were simple but elegant—strappy with just the right height to elongate my legs and give my walk a little sway. My skin—a warm, honeyed brown—glowed under the low amber lighting. I’d taken time with myself tonight, lined my long lashes just right, painted my toenails a deep wine-red to match my lipstick.

I looked good. Like I remembered how to.

At our little corner table, Mia raised her glass and grinned, already a few drinks in.

“To new beginnings, Isela” she declared.

The others laughed and lifted their cocktails. I raised mine last.

“To getting what we deserve this time,” I said softly, and the clink of our glasses felt like a promise I wasn’t sure I believed.

The bar was alive now. Music pulsed through the floor, the smell of old beer and cigarette smoke curling into every breath. The windows and doors were flung open to the street. Outside, the night buzzed. Inside, the lights made everything feel like 2 a.m. even though it was barely past ten.

Mia and the others scattered toward the dance floor in a flurry of glitter and swaying hips.

I stayed behind to finish my drink, already craving another cigarette. Just as I turned to head toward the window, I felt a presence beside me.

“Looks like your friends ditched you,” came a low, velvety voice. “They always do that?”

I turned.

He was tall, with slick black hair and a smile that belonged in an R&B music video. Latino, probably Dominican or Puerto Rican. Shirt unbuttoned just low enough to reveal smooth, bronze skin and a thin gold chain. He was beautiful—and he knew it. That made him dangerous.

“Only when they’re drunk enough to think they can outdance me,” I replied.

He smirked. “I doubt anyone could outdance you.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“You always this smooth?” I asked, tilting my head, lashes lowered.

“Only when it works.”

I laughed. It was small but real.

He looked down at my drink. “Can I get you another?”

“Not unless it comes with a fan. It’s hot as hell in here.”

“I thought that was just you.”

I rolled my eyes but didn’t walk away. Maybe because I liked the way he looked at me—bold, but appreciative. Like I was the kind of woman who might wreck him if he got too close. Like I was worth the risk anyway.

But I wasn’t here for flirtation. Not tonight.

Still… I stayed for a moment longer.

“Name’s Julian,” he said.

I didn’t give him mine.

Instead, I smiled, slow and deliberate. “You should go dance, Julian. You’ve got a lot of heat to burn off.”

“I’d rather burn it with you.”

I stepped back with my empty glass and a flash of something playful. “I’m not a slow burn. I’m a wildfire. Careful—you might not recover.”

Then I turned and walked away, letting my hips say goodbye for me.

The bass shifted. Deeper. Slower. The DJ knew what he was doing.

I caught the first few notes of a track I hadn’t heard in years—one of those sultry, honey-drenched R&B grooves that lived in the bloodstream of 1999. A song that made your body move before your brain could stop it.

I set my glass down, ran my fingers through my hair, and moved toward the floor without waiting for anyone.

The crowd thinned as the tempo slowed. People swayed lazily, couples clung to each other in the corners, but I took the center like it was mine.

And it was.

The music rolled over me like smoke. My arms rose, hips rolling to the beat. The black satin of my dress shifted with me, soft and fluid. My eyes closed, lashes brushing my cheeks as the lights flickered gold and red.

I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t grieving. I wasn’t pretending.

I was dancing.

My bare shoulders glistened under the amber lights, my heel catching just enough on the wood to give my steps a rhythm all their own. Hands brushed past me—some on purpose, some in passing—but I didn’t let anyone close. I didn’t need to. I was already lit from within.

For the first time in months, I felt wanted. By myself. For myself.

I let the bridge of the song carry me away, hips swaying, lips parted, and when I opened my eyes—I could’ve sworn the room faded. Like I’d stepped into a version of my life where nothing had ever broken.

And then I saw him—Julian—watching from the edge of the floor with a fresh drink in his hand, heat in his eyes. I gave him the barest smile.

That’s all he was going to get tonight.

Later That Night...

My apartment was too quiet.

I stepped out of my heels and left them near the door, padding barefoot across the hardwood as I peeled off the dress. It landed in a puddle at my feet. I tossed my purse on the counter and lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.

The glow of the city crept in through the windows, painting my walls in gold and gray. I exhaled smoke into the stillness, standing there in my underwear, too wired to sleep and too tired to cry.

I thought about the bar. About the dance floor. About Julian.

But mostly, I thought about him.

My ex.

And not the betrayal. Not the lies. I thought about his mouth on my neck. The way he used to slide my straps down like he was unwrapping something sacred. How he always made sure I was undone before he let himself go.

I hated him. But God… I missed the way he touched me. Like I was his obsession. Like he couldn’t breathe without me.

That was the one thing we never got wrong.

I took another drag, staring at the smoke spiraling toward the ceiling.

That’s the problem with memories. They don’t fade just because people do.