All the Broken People Read online

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Leah Konen

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA IS AVAILABLE FROM THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS

  Ebook ISBN: 9780593085486

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0

  For Eleanor

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  ONE

  People have all sorts of ideas about what they’d do if it happened to them.

  They’d tell their friends. They’d make that call. They’d leave. They certainly wouldn’t continue on like normal, banging out personal essays or temping at whatever online mag needed a freelance editor for the day. They’d tell their family (assuming they still had family in their lives to tell), they’d keep themselves busy (pottery class! political campaigns! yoga!). They’d heal, and they’d move on, and they’d rebuild their lives.

  That’s what I’d always thought, too.

  The exit for Woodstock, New York, came into view, my eyes flitting nervously to the rearview mirror as I quickly pulled off the ramp. Suddenly, I was in the country, pastures and horses, run-down schoolhouses, abandoned barns, and bucolic churches sprinkled over the landscape: Rural Mad Libs. I found Shadow Creek Road at the end of a particularly snakelike stretch. I turned, so eager to get out of the car and get to step two of this plan that I hardly slowed at all . . .

  I slammed on the brakes as the deer froze, staring me down.

  My body lurched forward; Dusty yelped as he thunked against the side of his crate. My blood pumped heavy and fast, flushing me with heat. I struggled to catch my breath as the doe’s eyes flashed at mine. What are you doing? What in God’s name do you think you’re doing? She pranced away, the heft of her body disappearing into the tall grasses of the meadow, as quickly as she’d come.

  My throat burned hot, acid rising, and I rammed the car into park. I jumped out and rushed to the passenger side, whipping open the back door. “You okay, buddy?” I asked. Dusty licked my hand, my erratic driving apparently not doing him too much harm. “I’m sorry,” I said, attempting to swallow the bitterness in the back of my mouth, nauseated at the realization that I was unable to prevent my own dog from getting hurt. I couldn’t bear to lose him, too.

  A car pulled up behind me, an old butter-yellow Mercedes. In the air, the smell of fried food—Davis and I had once dreamed of converting a diesel Mercedes to run on biodiesel, used cooking oil, free from restaurants. A woman climbed out of the driver’s side, graceful and lithe. Her golden hair shimmered in the sunlight, falling down her back, stick straight. Her cheekbones were high, her boobs perky, and her arms annoyingly taut. She wore black spandex pants and a loose black tank over a hot-pink sports bra—the kind of woman for whom “athleisure” was invented. What did she want?

  “You okay?” she asked, eyes scrunching up with concern. “Do you need help?”

  Her words made tears prick my eyes. I needed more help than she could possibly know. Quickly, I shut the door as Dusty whined. “It was just a deer,” I managed. “It surprised me, but I’m fine.” Before she could say anything else, I was back in my car, shifting into drive.

  In the rearview mirror, I saw her, eyes locked straight ahead—watching to make sure I was okay, or watching me? She was still following when I reached the farmhouse, the one the agent had told me to look out for. It was gorgeously decrepit, with red siding, peeling white trim, and a sloping roof whose edges sharpened to a point. I passed it, watching as the woman turned into the driveway—my new neighbor.

  I inched down the road but didn’t see another house, only a meadow on one side and fat-leaved trees on the other. I pulled over, checking the rearview once again. I grabbed my phone. Its SIM card had been replaced yesterday, but the screen was shattered—it would take at least a hundred dollars to fix it. I opened my new email, keying in my password and finding the response from the agent, Jennifer Moon, whose email signature featured two colors and a swirling font.

  Hi Lucy! Thanks for your quick reply. I’m so thrilled you’ll be renting the cottage, and yes, cash payment is just fine! Your little blue house is JUST AFTER the red farmhouse, with a small porch facing the driveway. This is your new HOME! The key is in the lockbox, code 3321. Welcome!

  Gravel ground beneath the wheels as I jerked back onto the road. My dad would have freaked that I’d bought the Accord from a guy on Craigslist, handing over a precious three thousand in cash for a key on a “Miami, Florida” key ring. He’d panic at this whole plan of mine. Of course, if he were around, I wouldn’t need one. He and my mom would be my plan.

  Finally, I saw it. It was quaint, royal blue, with a tiny wooden porch surrounded by uncut grass. Hell, it even had a porch swing, something I’d always wanted, back when I’d imagined Davis and me, far away from the city, a little girl with my eyes and his mouth playing with blocks at our feet. The possibilities seemed endless then, our future stretching out like dominoes, one day triggering the
next.

  I parked and quickly freed Dusty from his prison. He peed on the first bush he could find, then followed me onto the porch. I entered the code on the lockbox, and a silver key fell into my hand. The front door opened easily, almost too easily, and once inside, I checked the dead bolt three times.

  The place was furnished. The last tenant had been a single woman, too, but the house was owned by an older couple who’d relocated to Phoenix a few years ago to be near their grandson—all info Jennifer Moon had offered before I had a chance to ask.

  Dusty did a perimeter check, just as he’d done at the shitty Days Inn in Queens where we’d been holed up for the last two days, his tiny white body fluttering around like a giant cotton ball. I surveyed the room: two small navy sofas in front of a wood-burning stove with logs sitting next to it; bookshelves filled with Catskills hiking books, a Buddhism paperback, and a set of encyclopedias; a wooden rocking chair in one corner and double windows on either side.

  The bedroom was a sardine can, with a wrought-iron bed my mom would have loved and a gaudy floral quilt she would have hated, a desk too small to be useful, and a closet in the corner. I grabbed my tote bag and emptied the contents onto the bed:

  —Birth certificate

  —Social Security card

  —Passport and IDs

  —Debit and credit cards

  —Mom’s scarf

  —Dad’s hammer

  —Envelope of cash

  Arranging them on the bed, I touched each item, as if it might disappear in front of me if I didn’t keep tabs. Dusty scrambled across the papers, but I shooed him away. This was my life. Plastic and paper, cash and silk. I grabbed the envelope, counting the money once again—just over ten grand—then placed the hammer on the nightstand for protection. I fingered the scarf, creamy white and bordered with a stripe of royal blue and flower buds. Lifting it closer, I inspected the marred, murky brown corner. I would never forgive Davis for that. I let it fall to the bed, then stared at the rest of my things, trying to figure out what to do with it all.

  Outside, a twig snapped, sharp as a firecracker.

  Dusty barked and I bolted up. I grabbed the hammer and ran to the window, pulling back the drapes, heart like a drum.

  A rabbit, long-footed and gray. It hopped off.

  I took a deep yoga breath. I was like a scared animal sometimes, worse than Dusty with his tail between his legs.

  I set the hammer down and pushed the bed aside, metal screeching against the floorboards. I knelt, knees leaving prints in the blanket of dust, and carefully pressed each plank. After five minutes, I found one that felt loose, a few inches off the baseboard. I pried it up with the claw of the hammer, creating a space about ten inches long, four inches wide, then tucked away each item, everything but money for rent and my mother’s scarf, and pressed the board back into place. I ran my hands from side to side, scattering the dust, before repositioning the bed.

  I needed a drink. I’d forced myself to abstain since I left, knowing I had to keep a clear head. It was almost three, earlier than I’d start in regular life, but it seemed okay, considering. This was my new reality: I lived in a sweet little cottage, woodland creatures romped about, and I stored my possessions under the floorboards—who’s to say I had to wait till six?

  “What do you think?” I asked Dusty. “Has Mommy earned a drink?”

  From my suitcase, I retrieved Davis’s last good bottle of whiskey, the one I’d stolen two days ago, and headed to the kitchen. I glanced around the room, and my eyes caught on a doggie door, something I’d have to train Dusty to use properly. I poured a couple fingers of whiskey into a small juice glass and took a sip. I peered outside—the fenced-in postage stamp of yard was surrounded by an expanse of woods. This was the perfect place for us. It had to be.

  Back in the bedroom, I situated myself on the bed, opened my laptop, and logged in to the VPN I’d signed up for, the one that would scramble my IP address, keeping my connection untraceable, just in case. I loaded my old email, fearing the worst, but there were no new messages, nothing more than retail spam and nonprofit solicitations, stoking fear in a bid for more donations.

  I read over the draft I’d written last night, chest constricting at the thought of what my best friend, Ellie, might already know.

  Hey girl!

  Sorry for the last-minute notice, but I’m going to miss dinner tonight! I’ve decided to go back to Seattle for a few months. I’m going to finally go through my parents’ storage unit and try to actually make progress on my freelance career somewhere that’s slightly less expensive than Brooklyn. In addition to thinking, WTF, you’re probably wondering about what happened with Davis. I’m sad to say we’re going our separate ways. I wanted to tell you in person, but I just couldn’t bear it. I’m sorry.

  Love you dearly, and I hate to bail without saying bye, but it all came together really fast. When I’m settled, let’s plan a West Coast reunion, pretty please?

  Xxoo

  L

  Before I could doubt myself, I hit Send.

  TWO

  You’d think it would be easy to cut ties with a man like Davis, a natural reaction for a forward-thinking woman like me. But it wasn’t. Instead, he was like any other addiction, far easier to return to, to rationalize, than to give up completely. Just. One. More. Little. Sip. If only there were an AA for shitty boyfriends, for the women who found them impossible to leave.

  It was nearing four, and my first glass had been drained, before I got up the nerve to email Davis.

  I went back to Seattle. You can’t control us anymore.

  Then I attached the photo, my insurance against any future punishment. The only one I had.

  Inside me, I could feel it, the hatch opening up, just a crack, anger brewing at all that had happened between us, but I shut it tight, as I knew I had to, took a deep breath, and hit Send.

  For a split second, I imagined him reading it, his knuckles turning white against the edges of his phone. Then I imagined the alternative, and I prayed he was okay, my stomach tying itself in knots as my heart beat mercilessly.

  Pushing the fear aside, I logged out of my old email and back into my new one, [email protected], filled with only the back-and-forth about the cottage, a “Welcome to Gmail” message, and a few errant pieces of spam.

  Then I did what I’d been doing for more months than I’d like to admit, to cope—I drank.

  When I’d run out of internet black holes to fall into, when the second glass had become the third, when Dusty whined for food and I realized it was almost nine, I opened a can of dog food and ordered a pizza for myself, from one of the only places in town that delivered. Then I drank some more.

  * * *

  • • •

  Dusty pawed at my face.

  My eyes sprang open. It was morning, light surrounding the edges of the drapes like a halo. I had all my clothes on, and I was on top of the quilt, hair smushed, like a doll tossed aside after playtime was over. My jaw was tight. I’d been grinding my teeth, something I did when I was scared, a habit from childhood that was impossible to break.

  I still hadn’t gotten used to waking up without Davis. It was hard not to imagine him in his spot, legs tangled among the sheets, the nook of his shoulders ready for me to nestle into. His blond hair unkempt, his cowlick untamed, his thick glasses, ones we’d picked out together, sitting on the nightstand, waiting. His eyes fluttering open—Morning, babe.

  Now his place in bed was occupied by a grease-stained box of Cicero’s pizza. The smell of sausage turned my stomach.

  For better or worse, Davis had become an integral part of my life very quickly. There to accompany me to a friend’s birthday party. There to see the latest indie movie, try a recipe I’d found online, listen to the new LCD Soundsystem album and have an hour-long debate about whether it was any good. There to
crack a nerdy joke about the incest vibes in Star Wars. To hold me when the grief of missing my parents made me, occasionally, inconsolable. Eventually, there to welcome me fully into his apartment, his world. To warm the bed, to be my partner in dog ownership, our shared responsibility making Dusty, my everything, a possibility . . .

  There to toss all those possibilities straight to hell. To reveal his true self to me, little by little. To redefine my understanding of the concept of surprise.

  Dusty jumped up, sniffing at the leftover pizza.

  “Down,” I said, tasting a gummy bitterness in the back of my throat. “We’ll go in a minute.” My phone sat on top of the box, ominous. I tapped it to life. It was after eleven. No calls or texts, but it’s not like there would be. Davis didn’t have my new number, my SIM card made sure of that.

  I pulled myself out of bed, then peeked through the drapes just as a car drove slowly past. I forced myself to take a deep breath. I would have to let go of this, this feeling of being watched. I let the drapes fall shut, careful that not even an inch of window was exposed, then approached the mirror hanging on one side of the door. There, framed by my unruly brown curls and impossible to miss, was the bruise. Angry and white in the middle, purple and blue, watercolor splotches, at the edges. Circling my cheekbone like a bull’s-eye, about three inches across.

  I grabbed my purse from where I’d tossed it on the nightstand and dug for the Dermablend, which my mom had gotten me hooked on when acne was my biggest nemesis. As I dabbed it on, my cheek burned hot, skin vellum-delicate, and for a second, I was back in our apartment on Wednesday night, the room going off-kilter and beginning to spin as pain seared the side of my face . . .

  Dusty whimpered, almost like he was sympathizing, but I knew he only wanted to go out. I surveyed my masterpiece—the bruise, scratch, and my light smattering of freckles disappearing behind the makeup, blurry as a generous Instagram filter, hazy and unblighted as the Mona Lisa. Beauty magazines never covered tips like these. Stuff like this, you had to figure out on your own.