Marry Me, Mackenzie!. Joanna Sims

dishwasher drawer back in, but it caught.

      “Dammit!” Dylan rattled it back into place and then with a hard shove, slammed it forward. He lifted up the dishwasher door and shut it, hard. Stony faced, he leaned back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. Still frustrated and restless, Dylan headed down to the beach and once his feet hit the sand, he started to run. He was grateful for the cover of the night. He was grateful that there were only a few souls on the beach with him. He started to run faster, his feet pounding on the hard-packed sand. Pushing his body harder, pushing himself to go faster and farther than he had ever gone before. His lungs burned, but he didn’t let up. His leg muscles burned, but he didn’t let up. He didn’t let up until his leg muscles gave way and he stumbled. His hands took the brunt of his body weight as he fell forward into the sand. Fighting to catch his breath, he sat back, and dropped his head down to his knees. He pressed his sandy fingers into his eyes and then pinched the side of his nose to stop tears from forming.

      He’d never wanted to be a father and he’d worked damn hard to make sure it never happened. That he never had a slipup. He had been vigilant all of his sexual life to make sure that he never got anyone pregnant. Even if he had been dating someone for a while, even if he saw them take the pill every day, he always wore a condom. But the one time he didn’t—the one time he didn’t—he’d gotten caught. And now, he had to face the one fear he had never intended to face: Was being a bad father genetic?

      * * *

      “I’m here.” Mackenzie pulled into a parking spot a couple of doors down from Dylan’s condo. She was on speakerphone with Rayna and Charlie.

      “Mackenzie—you’ve got this,” Charlie said.

      “And don’t forget—” Rayna began.

      “Rayna,” Mackenzie interrupted her. “Please, please, please don’t give me another spiritual affirmation. I just can’t take it right now.”

      After a pause, Rayna said in her “let’s meditate” voice, “I was just going to say—don’t forget that we’re always here for you, anytime, no matter what.”

      “Oh. Sorry. Thank you,” Mackenzie said. “I’ll be by to pick up Hope after I’m done.”

      Mackenzie hung up with her friends and then got out of the car. She stood by her car for several minutes, staring at Dylan’s condo, before she forced herself to get the show on the road. Stalling wouldn’t help. She needed to face this conversation with Dylan head-on and get it out of the way.

      Mackenzie took a deep breath in and knocked on the door. This time, unlike the last time she stood in this spot, Dylan opened the door seconds after she knocked.

      “Come on in.” Dylan stepped back and opened the door wider.

      Mackenzie walked, with crossed arms, through the door and into Dylan’s world. She noticed, more so than she had the first time she was here, how neat and organized Dylan’s home was. His home was sleek, expensive and masculine: the ultimate bachelor pad. It was a sharp contrast to her 1930s Spanish-style Balboa Park rental with an interior decor that was cobbled together with flea-market finds and garage-sale bargains. The lives they lived, the lives they had built for themselves, couldn’t be more different.

      “Can I get you something to drink?” Dylan stood several feet away from her, hands hidden in his front pockets. He looked different today. The boyish spark was gone from his eyes. The features of his face were hardened, his mouth unsmiling. Today, he seemed more like a man to her than he ever had before.

      “No. Thank you.” Mackenzie shook her head, wishing she were already on the back end of this conversation.

      “Let’s talk in the den.” Dylan slipped his left hand out of his pocket and gestured for her to walk in front of him. “After you.”

      Mackenzie waited for Dylan to sit down before she said, “I’m not sure where to begin...”

      “Why don’t we start with an answer to my question.” Dylan was determined not to let this conversation spiral out of control. He had always been known for his cool head and he wanted to keep it that way.

      “I think you’ve already figured out the answer to your question, Dylan. But if you need to hear me say it, then I’ll say it,” Mackenzie said in a measured, even voice. “Hope is your daughter.”

      Instead of responding right away, Dylan stood up and walked over to the large window that overlooked the ocean. He stared out at the waves and rubbed his hand hard over his freshly shaven jawline. With a shake of his head, he turned his back to the window.

      “I’m just trying to wrap my mind around this, Mackenzie. It’s not every day that my friend’s sister turns up with my kid.”

      “I understand.” Mackenzie wished that she could stop the sick feeling of nerves brewing in her stomach.

      “How long have you known that she’s mine, Mackenzie?” Dylan asked pointedly. “Have you always known...or did you think that she was your ex-boyfriend’s child?”

      Mackenzie’s stomach gurgled loudly. Embarrassed, she pressed her hands tightly into her belly. “I’ve always known.”

      “How?” Dylan asked quietly, his face pale. “How did you know?”

      “You were the only one I’d slept with in months, Dylan. It couldn’t’ve been anyone else but you.”

      Dylan leaned back against the window; he felt off balance. “That’s not what I expected you to say.”

      “It’s the truth....” Mackenzie said.

      Dylan didn’t respond; he didn’t move. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he didn’t.

      “I have a question for you.” Mackenzie turned her body toward him. “What made you think she was yours?”

      “The bump...on her ear. It matches mine.”

      “Oh...” Mackenzie said faintly. Dylan had always worn his hair long when they were kids—she never noticed that birthmark before.

      “And then there was this.” Dylan retrieved the photo album, opened it and held it out for Mackenzie to take.

      “Look familiar?” Dylan pointed to the picture of his aunt Gerri.

      Mackenzie nodded, stared closely at the picture.

      “Who needs a DNA test, right?” Dylan nodded toward the picture.

      Mackenzie stared at the old black-and-white photograph. “This little girl...she’s the spitting image of Hope.” Mackenzie looked up. “Who is she?”

      “That’s my aunt Gerri when she was nine.”

      “I remember your aunt Gerri. We went to their horse farm a couple of times. She played the organ for us.”

      Dylan’s jaw set. “Hope should be able to remember my aunt Gerri, too. Uncle Bill’s the closest thing to a father I’ve ever had. He deserved the chance to know my daughter.”

      Dylan’s well-crafted barb hit its intended mark. And it hurt. Because Mackenzie knew that he was right. Silently, she carefully closed the photo album and handed it back to Dylan.

      Dylan put the photo album on the coffee table and sunk down on the couch a cushion away from Mackenzie. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his legs and cradled his head in his hands.

      “So...” Dylan said quietly. “We both know she’s mine. The next question I’d like answered is...why did you know ten years ago and I’m only finding out now?”

      Mackenzie leaned away from Dylan. “I found out I was pregnant really early on. I’m regular...like clockwork. So when I didn’t get my period after the wedding...I knew.”

      “And you didn’t think it was important to share this information with me, because...?”

      “I