Tell him to show her it’s not him

“Prove it,” she said, with an impressive calmness to her voice. “Pull it out. Show me it’s not the same dick.”

My expression cracked for a second in surprise and disbelief.

“Mia–”

“You’re already in the deep end, Mr. Holloway.” She placed both hands on the edge of the desk, leaning toward me just enough that I could smell the faint trace of her shampoo. “So, either you’re him... or you’re not. One of those options means I owe you an apology. The other means I was right, and you have no place lecturing me about reputations and proper behavior.”

“I–” I started, but she didn’t let me finish.

“Ooooor,” she pressed, “you can refuse. And I’ll just show the picture to my dad.”

All I could do was blink, while the room felt like it was closing in. My mind was running, trying to find something to say, but the words stuck. My jaw worked silently for a second, before I could form anything that sounded remotely rational.

She shrugged lightly, glancing back at her phone that had been abandoned on the desk in front of the now empty chair she’d previously sat in.

“I know you’re feeling a little stressed right now, but you can still remember him, right? You know, your boss, like you said. The Dean of Students? Pretty sure he’d love to have a sit-down about this with you. Maybe you could prove it’s not you to him.”

“I–” I tried again, but she cut me off once more.

“You can try to talk your way out of this, Erik,” she said, using my first name now, looking up at me. “But by now, you’ve got to know how this looks. If I were anyone else, you’d probably already be done.”

My lips parted, but she didn’t give me a chance to speak.

“But that’s the problem, isn’t it?” she added, her tone changing to sound almost thoughtful. “You’re not worried about how it looks, or whether it’s true. You’re worried that no one would care either way.”

Her words hit like a body blow. I stood there, staring at her perched on my desk, calm as ever, with her legs crossed, listening to her fingernails idly tap at the underside of the desk, where her fingers still curled around the edge.

“You say it’s not you?” she asked. “Then show me. If you’re so worried about what even the implication of a rumor would do to your career here– hell, anywhere, with the way something like this follows you, then let me see it. And if I’m wrong, I owe you that apology.”

“Mia– Jesus.” I took a step back, running a hand through my hair, feeling the color rise across my face. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Anything about this would ruin my life. This is insane. You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” she said, idly swinging her legs. “All you have to do is prove me wrong.”

All I could do was look at her. She didn’t look like she was bluffing. Or if she was, she was doing a terrifyingly good job of it.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she said, meeting my eyes. “But if you don’t... we both know what happens next.”

She let the words hang as she glanced to the side. Her gaze landed on the small silver frame at the corner of my desk holding a photo of me and my two kids. It was taken on a beach trip. We all looked happy, wearing matching hats, and making faces for the camera.

She reached for it, turning the frame toward her and studying it for a moment, like she was trying to guess their ages. She didn’t smile, or comment. Just traced the edge of the frame with her finger.

Enjoying the story? Support my work on Patreon. Thank you for reading!