The Long Way Home

the long way home megan mayfair Copyright © 2023 by Megan Mayfair All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously. The Long Way Home is set in Australia, and uses Australian English spelling and grammar. For Michael. contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 About the Author Also by Megan Mayfair one Peri pulled the key from the ignition, jiggled it in her hand and eyed the large cardboard box resting on her front passenger seat. She winced. She couldn’t afford it. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Thanks to her part-time job at the second-hand vintage clothing store, she had extra cash this week. And Dev had paid his rent early. But there was always something else she should’ve spent the money on. She exhaled, guilt leaving with her breath; what joy would attending that long-overdue clinician’s appointment bring? This beautiful cardboard box, the colour of crunched-up autumn leaves, on the other hand? It would bring immense happiness when she slid a knife through the clear tape, pulled back the flaps, rummaged through the packing peanuts and discovered the mysterious treasures inside – happiness in carefully unpacking and basking in their beauty. “Not again.” Dev’s tone was incredulous as he leaned down to the open window, his dark hair slicked back from running in the warm late-afternoon sun, beads of sweat glistening on his skin. She suppressed a gasp, bringing a hand to her chest to stop her heart from pounding. “How …. how long have you been standing there?” He snuck up on her with frustrating regularity. Not that it was difficult to sneak up on her, but all the same, he was lithe and agile and moved with the grace of a cheetah. “A while.” He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to the side while stretching a toned arm across his chest. “I called out, but I guess you can’t hear me over that,” he added, gesturing towards her phone clipped to her dashboard. “Too loud?” He nodded mutely and lifted the edge of his t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, revealing a brief glimpse of his flat, toned stomach. “I don’t know how you stand it at that volume. I can barely think when music is up that high.” ‘Waterloo Sunset’ by The Kinks was blasting from her phone. He’d noticed the volume she listened to her 1960s British hits. She’d make a note as to what settings her music was on when he was around. It was better to avoid questions about how well she could hear music at low levels. The car fell silent as she swiped her index finger over the screen, closing the music player app. “You don’t need to put up with it anymore,” she said, snatching the phone from the holder. “Instead, you can help me with this.” She tapped her fire-engine red nails on her new acquisition. “I just had my nails done.” Dev groaned and rolled his head towards the sky. “You still haven’t got rid of everything from the last one you bought. No one is ever going to buy those flamingo lamps.” He stretched his other arm across his chest. “They’re hideous,” he added, turning his humourless gaze back to her. He was cute when he got all serious on her with his furrowed brow and pursed lips. His Bachelor of Education degree was clearly teaching him more than simply how to manage a maths class. He had a variety of disappointed arm folds or ‘tsk’ noises perfectly befitting a teacher. “I’m keeping the lamps. I love them,” she said with determination. She didn’t, but digging in her heels was easier than admitting they were unsellable. “Could you keep them in your room at least? The glowing eyes freak me out.” He shook his shoulders in mock fright. “I shudder to think what junk is inside this box.” He pulled the door open, standing back as she shimmied from the car, smoothing her black pencil skirt. “I got a fashion box this time, so I’ll do a market stall. If there are a few designer pieces in the box, I’ll make it back in one day. Bet you a doughnut.” “I don’t fancy my chances. There’s always so much cheap rubbish in these boxes. That’s why people return it.” She quirked an eyebrow. “I didn’t hear you complain when you made one of your fancy blue cheese toasties in the sandwich press you kept from the last box. Come on,”—she gently shoved his shoulder—“help me, please. It’s heavy.” She needed those taut running muscles to heave her purchase up the crooked stone pathway of the home they shared. Dev followed her to the passenger side where she flung open the door. He hauled the box from the seat, ignoring her offer to grab one side, and followed her inside the small, weatherboard house, inherited from her late grandmother who had owned it for decades and decades. The paint may have been peeling and the kitchen a yellow and white linoleum-floored relic from the 1950s, but this small worker’s cottage with its small