Twenty-nine

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Save the Last Dance was in my DVD player

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Save the Last Dance was in my DVD player. It was Saturday night and normal girls would either be out with their best friends or somewhere lost in love with their significant other.

         Troiann was doing something special with Marcus and as happy as I was for her, I just wanted to bask in my lonesome. Sometimes solitude was nice.

I liked Julia Stiles. I couldn't think of a single '90s movie that she'd starred in that she hadn't killed. I even loved the hell out of her and Sean Patrick Thomas in Save the Last Dance.

My cell phone alerted me to a new text message. I expected to find Omari texting me, but to my dismay it was from Him.

         I wanted to tell him to go screw himself and to lose my number

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I wanted to tell him to go screw himself and to lose my number. I wanted to also make note that he was trespassing.

Instead, I found myself marching downstairs to the back door, ready to tell him off to his face.

I opened the door, ready to say something foul, but then I caught sight of how He looked.

"DeAndre?" I was amazed at how easily and fluidly his name rolled off of my tongue after going for so long without saying it. DeAndre.

He seemed jumpy. "C-can I come in?"

No. Absolutely not. I should've told him to take his ass to Draya or one of his "best" friends.

The thought refueled my anger and I opened my mouth to tell him three words he needed to hear.

Except, what came out didn't sound like go fuck yourself, but instead, "Come in."

I found myself taking a step back, allowing him to enter my home. I had a right to be angry but never before had I seen DeAndre so...frightened.

I had been lounging around and so I was only wearing an oversized racerback tank with a pair of leggings. My bra was showing, and not to mention the tank top's v-cut giving a nice peek at my cleavage. Cautiously, I crossed my arms over my chest.

Together we stood there for a moment, too awkward to speak. DeAndre looked around and I just stood taking him all in. He was only wearing a navy t-shirt with a pair of black sweats. Sweatpants on guys was just all types of yes and yum and—ugh.

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