She shows up at your door with mascara running down her cheeks, no doubt courtesy of both her tears and the pounding rain. Why did she come here? Your house isn't even halfway to sanctuary. Damn, Puckett, it's the same reason you ran to her place (however unintentionally) – she needs someone's shoulder to cry on. She needs someone to hold her while she cries and rub her back in circles while she sobs out the whole story the way you wish you could. You know that this must have something to do with Freddie. That boy causes too much trouble for his own good.
"Sam," she gulps, "he dumped me," and her face crumples again and she falls on you and you catch her. If you hadn't she would've fallen to the pavement and cracked her head open, died like she thinks she wants to. As much as you hate it, you feel a part of your heart start singing. It could never happen, you tell it, and you shove it down to the bottom of your priority list because you're not the type to act vulnerable in front of your friends as most girls seem to do.
At least if this had happened to you, you could've woken up tomorrow and put on the greatest façade of your life. You could joke around and punch Freddie like always and eat ham in the iCarly studio. Now you know that they'll be walking on eggshells and you'll be pissed because it would be nice to have some fun when you three see one another at school because who else does Freddie have to sit with? His technerd friends all have crushes, you bet, most out of their league entirely, like Carly used to be to Freddie, and he'd have to sit there thinking about how he let the girl he'd loved forever go.
By now, Carly is sitting in your room on a beanbag, dressed in one of your shirts and some of her sweatpants because you've both left half a closet at the other's place. She is steadily depleting your supply of tissues, and you walk to the bathroom to retrieve some Ibuprofen because she'll have a wicked headache when she stops crying. Her whole heart is there on her sleeve for everyone to see. Thank god your mother isn't home, because she'd be pitching a hissy fit about the noise from your TV, turned to Girly Cow louder than usual because Carly needs to laugh right now.
You wonder how Freddie told her and how he feels right now. He knew you were right. You knew you were right, and you knew it wasn't going to end without some nasty shit going down. Hopefully she can dry her tears before tomorrow, and if she can't, you'll skip and so will she. You'll cheer her up and you'll sit together and watch bad cartoons and eat horrible children's cereal and not give a flying fadoodle about how many calories are in it.
"Carly," you begin to ask, "do you wanna shower here and spend the night?" She nods, mumbling about calling Spencer, and moves to grab a towel out of your closet. You hear the shower kick on and watch as Girly Cow sings about the importance of brushing one's teeth in a humorous way.
God, you wish you could see Freddie right now. Not all relationships are based on making out – yours wouldn't be. It still makes your fifth-grade self a little creeped out to think about it. That kiss was nice, though… really nice. Your thoughts are interrupted by Carly coming in, fully clothed with wet hair. She must've taken her clothes to the bathroom.
You wonder how to tell Carly that this was your fault. She told you some version of the story but didn't mention you anywhere, except for the part about Noseby Moseby, and you don't think she would have come here if she'd known you planted the idea in his head. Your mom comes home, screaming at you to turn the TV down. That is really her only method of communication, no mother-daughter talks included, and that must be why you're so screwed up. Because you only really have Carly, and she at least has Spencer to talk to. Speaking of Spencer…
You could really go for a spaghetti taco right now. Damn.
Hopefully a resolution of some sort shines through tomorrow, because you're really tired of today.