“What, driving by Ryan Spangler’s house when there is a restraining order against you is beyond your ability to control? Because that’s a fast-lane ticket to jail.”
“No, not that,” she said, shaking her head a little, then pausing to push unruly curls back from her face with the back of her hand. “I could control that if I wanted to. But I don’t want to. I want to drive by and see what’s going on, and that’s the thing I can’t control.” Anger management issues, her mother had said. Dr. Huber was a little more sophisticated in her diagnosis. She’d said Libby had suffered from Brief Reactive Psychosis, and it was nothing a little psychotherapy, antidepressants, and the development of coping mechanisms wouldn’t cure. So far, eating was the only coping mechanism Libby had managed to ace. She wasn’t in therapy—that cost money, and that was something she didn’t have a lot of. But her mother had paid for the medicine, and she was taking that religiously.
In spite of the meds she was taking, Libby was not feeling zen, she was feeling strangely giddy in that moment, her mind swimming with Ryan’s apology. That meant she had not manufactured their relationship or their love. After beating herself up for so long for being so stupid, that realization alone made her want to do cartwheels.
She wondered if she could still do cartwheels and stuffed another big helping of ice cream into her mouth. Sam was studying her, almost as if he was waiting for her to say more.
When she didn’t, Sam pushed away from her car, stepped off the curb, and sat beside her. There was a lot of warmth in his eyes. Libby had noticed that before, on the day she’d gone off on Ryan’s truck. Sam had not looked afraid of her, like Sarah Drew, who clutched her purse to her breast, staring in horror. Sam had looked as if he understood. She could remember feeling comforted somehow that it was him who took the club, as if he was one person in the midst of the chaos who was there to help her, not hurt her. She remembered feeling grateful to him—for stopping her, for being there, for protecting her.
He smiled a little now, and his eyes crinkled in the corners. Libby felt a tiny little wave of electricity go through her that she found both disturbing and exciting.
She handed him a spoon and her bag of ice cream.
Sam looked into the shopping bag. He took out the Caramel Crunch. “We can talk about your lack of control a little more while we take a drive,” he remarked as he popped the lid off the container.
That brought Libby’s head up. “Take what drive?”
“The drive I told Ryan we were going to take,” he said, digging his spoon into the ice cream. “You know, to help out the less fortunate.”
Libby laughed. “Good one.”
Sam did not laugh. He turned those eyes on her again, and Libby felt the heat behind them sidle down through her spine. “I just lied to keep you out of trouble. So we’re going to turn it into a half lie, you and me. And by the way, don’t expect me to ever lie for you again.”
“No. No, no,” she said contritely. She glanced at her watch. She had two hours before she had to be anywhere. “I’ve got some things I have to do today,” she pointed out.
“Like what? Drive by Ryan’s house again? What about his work? Maybe you should drive by there, too. Go in and say hi. Oh, and while you’re at it, maybe stop in at the school and see what the kids are up to.”
“Not funny,” she said.
“I didn’t intend it to be.”
Libby groaned, took another generous bite of ice cream. “I am not driving by his work, Sam. It’s not like I’m a professional stalker here.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes!” Libby was not going to let him drag her down. She was feeling buoyant for the first time in weeks. “What is the purpose of this drive, again? So you can explain the concept of freedom to me again?”
“I will if you need it. But if you will promise not to get mouthy or go where you’re not supposed to go, I promise not to bring up the R.O.”
Oh, how Libby hated that term. It sounded so . . . criminal. “How kind of you, officer.” She spooned more ice cream. “Where are we going?”
“Like I said—to see about some less fortunate people. It might do you some good to see that there are others out there with bigger problems than you.”
Libby snorted. “I know. I volunteered at every charity in town, remember?”
“Yes, I do. Why don’t you start volunteering again? It might help you keep your mind off those things that are beyond your control. Why’d you quit Meals On Wheels?” he asked.
She suddenly remembered one cold afternoon more than a year ago when Sam had brought a truckload of potatoes to the Meals On Wheels kitchen. He’d gone down to Gunnison to get them from a farmer there. Libby just happened to be working that afternoon and had been happy to see him, because the two old men sorting through the food donations were as humorless as that gray afternoon.