Brooding Rebel to Baby Daddy

something ought to have alerted him.
Unless enough time had passed that ripples, where she was concerned, were no longer his to feel.
Bear cleaned the froth spout on his big coffee maker as he said, “Trudy saw her get off the bus from Melbourne not two hours ago, dragging a big fancy suitcase behind her. Story goes, she was heading towards your place.”
That had Rafe off the stool.
Janie was home.
Bear shot him a look that said, Got ya.
Rafe threw a ten-dollar note on the counter and gave in. “Towards her mother’s place, you mean.”
“Her mother?”
“Mercy.”
Bear’s eyebrows leapt. “You’re kidding.” He scratched his bearded chin. “So, is that how you and the younger Ms Sutton became a thing back in the day? ’Cause you lived next door?”
Rafe let a beat slink by. “Held onto that question pretty tight.”
Bear had the grace to blush. “Wanted to give you the chance to tell your side of the story before believing everyone else’s.”
Rafe breathed. And reminded himself that he liked Bear. And the guy was relatively new in town. So, while Rafe’s part in the Sable Sutton story was ancient history, to Bear—his friend—it was news.
Rafe ran a hand over the back of his neck. Then again. Harder. As if warming himself up for what he was about to say out loud. “Yes, she lived next door. Yes, we were a thing. She was seventeen when her photos got her a shot at an agent and a gallery show in New York. She went. The end.”
Bear lifted his chin towards Rafe, mouth down-turned: the manly man’s international sign for respect. “My ex was obsessed with her Broken Botanicals series—had these huge amazing prints of fallen trees, snapped stems, shredded leaves. Couldn’t afford the originals. He’d die to know she was here.”
Rafe wondered if Bear knew he was grinning at the vision of his ex dying.
Then Bear swished his black-and-white-checked apron aside and pulled his phone from the back pocket of his black jeans and held it out to Rafe. “Do you follow her?”
“Do I—?”
“Online. She’s got quite the following for someone who doesn’t post pictures of herself in a bikini. Or isn’t a reality TV star.”
Rafe kept his gaze on Bear’s face, refusing to look. Until Bear’s mouth kicked up in a knowing smile.
Fine, he’d look, then they could change the subject.
Rafe dropped his gaze to the phone.
And there she was. Sable Sutton. Staring right back at him.
Chin lifted, mouth slightly open, long hair, a hundred shades of blonde, a windswept halo around her face. The pose said, Take one step closer and I’ll burn you alive.
Notions Rafe believed he’d long since buried, began to simmer and shift. Ripples, after all. He shut them down fast. Well practised. From a time when reacting had meant the difference between dinner or a beating.
“You okay?” said Bear.
“Course I’m okay,” Rafe grumbled. “Just leave me out of the story the next time you tell it, okay?”
“Done,” Bear promised, his voice deep, and deadly serious. A good guy. A good friend. And there had been a time, in this town, when Rafe hadn’t had all that many of those. Having the last name Thorne meant having a target on your back. Not that Sable had ever cared about that. She’d only cared about him.
And then she was gone.
And now she was back.
And his head hurt.
Rafe rapped his knuckles on the counter as goodbye, then strolled out of the warm, hipster haven and into the chilly autumn day outside.
Sable. Despite his best efforts not to listen, her name whispered on the breeze. Sable Sutton.
Rafe glanced down Laurel Avenue, towards the outskirts of town. Not the showy bit, with the quaint shops, the faux vintage street lamps, the autumnal trees overhanging the neat footpaths, but the old section. Not that long ago—before the beautification tourist money had poured into the outskirts of the snow fields—people had been hanging on by their fingernails.
His phone chirped. A message from Janie, reading,
Hey bro, you’ll never guess who’s back!
He put his phone away. And when he next breathed in, he could taste it.
Change. A change was coming. And it had nothing to do with the weather.
He shoved his hands deep into the fleece-lined pockets of his coat, turned, and walked the opposite way.
Sable didn’t bother to knock, for her mother’s front door was open, letting the cold air seep inside. There was also no doorknob, just a hole where a doorknob should be.
Her place in LA—her ex’s place—had deadbolts, security cameras and an alarm. Not much help when the person doing you wrong was on the inside.
Sable lifted her heavy suitcase over the threshold and trundled down the dark hall.
She followed the sound of Bob Dylan to find her mother in the sunroom at the far end of the house, standing on an ancient wooden step stool, hanging bunches of vibrant, dried chillies upside-down by hooks on the ceiling.
“Mercy?”
Her mother’s hands paused, before she looked over her shoulder. “Sable,” Mercy drawled. “What on nature’s green earth are you doing here?”
Missed you too, Mum.
“I’m back. For a visit,” she added quickly, when her mother’s eyes narrowed, making her crow’s feet pop.
“Why?”
“You could at least try to look happy to see me.”
“Of course, I am. I’m just surprised.”
Right.
Mercy exhaled hard, wiping her hands in the length of her flowing skirt as she jumped down from the stool. Then she padded up to Sable, feet bare, ankle bracelets jangling, long auburn hair streaked with silver floating behind her like a fiery cloud.
She stopped a good metre away from her daughter. No hugs. Not even a pat on the arm. “Have you been next door?”
Round one, here we go. Sable nodded.
“Didn’t take you long to go sniffing around that place again.”
The urge to duck her head was potent. It took every bit of courage she had left to fight it. To look her mother in the eye.
Sensitive as a kid, Sable had always tended towards conciliation. Avoiding eye contact, making herself appear smaller than she was, in the