"Wow, Freddie. I like seeing you get all feisty."

--Sam Puckett

i'M Feeling Better

On a date, after a date? During school, after school? After a nice time, before a nice time?

I don't think there's really such a thing as a "good time" to break up with someone. Especially when it was the "right thing," the thing that was supposed to last for the rest of your life.

I put it off.

It made me cringe whenever I couldn't avoid coming back to it. The kind of cringe in which you wanted your body to shriven up, fold in on itself, and disappear. Preferably forever.

It was easy to feel like a bad guy. Or more like the incorrigible guy who was the one who cast bad guys for a living. After all, this whole thing had been my thing, my idea. I'd initiated it under the assumption that it was a good idea, a necessary thing.

And now it was so hard to even recall what that assumption looked like, much less felt like. Not only because I hadn't felt it in a long time.

But coward or not—and I was definitely defining myself as a coward quite a lot lately—I had a responsibility. The same responsibility that was making me feel like quitting school and migrating to a less sleazy occupation—like scrapping toilets or something.

I had a responsibility.

Freddie Benson may have come a long way from the uptight little tech boy who'd first helped form a little Internet show with his "friends" that had grown to be so popular. Freddie Benson may have even felt proud at this progress, whether or not he exaggerated just how much progress there actually was. I don't know about Freddie Benson, but I know I did.

Feel proud about it, that is. And I suppose probably exaggerated it as well.

I was a coward for not standing up to these little ideas that had been imprinted in my head, about how I was supposed to act—way back when they'd first started.

I was a coward for putting it off for three whole days. Two of which I spent with Amelia. I was a coward for nearly turning around every other foot I took towards her house.

I was a coward for almost calling it off when she was actually there, standing in front of me and not completely expecting this. I could've just given a routine smile and pretended that it was just another day. It made me feel despicable just how tempting that was.

But I didn't. Somehow I didn't.

And while I didn't tell the truth, the whole, complete, honest truth like I should've, I told enough of what I was feeling to justify why I was there.

And Spencer was right. That would grow to remain one of my biggest regrets of High School. Definitely of that year. I should've told her everything. Even the sleazy stuff. I should've.

I have no idea how much time it took. Maybe a couple minutes.

I spent the rest holding her as she cried.

--

I stared down at my mom.

I'm not sure why she'd fallen asleep. It really wasn't that late.

This place that I found myself looking down from was a lot different from the last time I'd walked in on my mom like this. Even in the past couple hours things had changed so much.

Some things hadn't changed. Some things I might've changed my demeanor towards, maybe even my ultimate reaction towards, but the things themselves hadn't changed.

It wasn't like things were suddenly going to be tulips and butterflies—like this temper thing was just going to say aw shucks, and move on. Some things hadn't changed.

But enough things had.

I sat down beside her and put my hand on her shoulder. "Mom. Mom, wake up."

"Oh," she said as she jerked awake and looked around the living room a little surprised, "What time is it, dear?"

"Nine thirty," I murmured, but I wasn't overly concerned about that. I wasn't actually overly concerned about a lot of the things I had been not all that long ago. I'd like to think that was a good thing.

"I've got to …" I started, feeling a bit like I had stepping into Amelia's room tonight, "… Tell you something about the week when me and Amelia had been taking a break … you know, when I was going places with Sam? …"

--

It was a great show.

I wasn't thinking about Sam.

In addition to our Christmas send off we were doing a food theme. Again. But that probably had a lot to do with half of our "talent" being—

I wasn't thinking about Sam. Or my life problems. If there was a difference.

"Mm, hold on, I got it," said the problem I wasn't thinking about. She thoughtfully wriggled around the mouth that I wasn't thinking about either.

Carly and girl number two were wearing Santa hats and sitting on stools in the studio, blindfolded, and sampling unusual dishes that they'd put together for each other—with the aims of trying to guess what exactly they were eating. Carly's selections of course verged more on the experimental, while our other "performer" understandably showed a little bit more restraint for Carly's sake.

"No, she doesn't have it!" Carly whispered conspiratorially as she blindly leaned in my general direction. She was playing up her triumph of being able to trick her costar with her last dish, Nutria salad. Don't even Noogle that. Trust me.

But then again, I personally don't think that compared to the dish the blonde one was currently putting into her mouth. I hadn't really believed Carly when she'd handed me her list of foods. I mean ... there's obviously nothing wrong with eating most parts of a duck, but ... feet?

Girl number two was currently nibbling on one of end of the food that she'd already commented tasted like chicken, but with web-like characteristics.

No kidding.

I was about to announce that there were ten seconds left.

There was no way that particular girl was going to—

"Duck feet!" Sam suddenly shouted as she leaped to her feet.

"What!" Carly exclaimed as she jumped to her feet as well and yanked off her blindfold. "There's no way! You peeked!"

To be honest I couldn't help but suspect the same thing, even though I'd had the camera on her the whole time. Even though she was Sam.

"I did not!" Sam also pulled off her blindfold.

They squabbled.

And speedily sank to topics you just didn't discuss on the Internet.

"Guys! Guys!" I tried. You would think after all this time I would be kinda good at this. True, having to hold the camera is kinda a handicap. "The segment—the segment we're doing with limited amounts of time—"

"—Because you told me we had to hurry! How was I supposed to know that you were going sit on them?" Sam—er, the shorter contributor to the argument demanded.

"Oh? And that makes it okay that I had to walk around school all day with an orange butt?—" Carly spat.

"Guys!"

"Well next time don't buy nacho cheese!" the more assertive orientated—ugh, whatever—Sam suggested testily.

"Or maybe next time don't throw chips onto the car seat I'm going to ingress to, nacho cheese or—"

"Ooh, look who can use the thesasaurus," Sam said with exaggerated motions of praise.

"It's thesaurus!" Carly answered hotly. "It's a book, not a dinosaur!"

"Guys!" I guess I finally shouted loud enough.

"Oh … right," Carly said with a nervous little laugh as she gave a guilty look to the camera. "Well I guess since we're more or less out of time, we're going to call it a rap."

"But wait," Sam said as she grabbed Carly's dish and put it behind her back before she could see it, "You still didn't guess what you were eating."

"Oh, I already gave up," Carly answered with a frown.

"You can't give up," Sam protested.

Carly rolled her eyes, "Ugh, fine. Is it chicken? It tastes like chicken, but it can't be that simple."

Sam smiled a little as she held out the plate in front of her. "Close … it's actually turducken." She wiggled it in what she probably thought was an appealing way.

I zoomed the camera in far enough to showcase the distinct layers of meat stuffed on top of each other.

Carly slowly took off her Santa hat, looking like she was trying not to hyperventilate. "What is that?"

Sam went into food encyclopedia mode. "It's actually three different de-boned meats layered together, being a chicken that is stuffed inside a duck, which is in turn stuffed inside a turkey, hence the name—"

"Oh, my God!" Carly broke and ran off camera.

Well, at least I'd talked Sam out of feeding her reindeer strips. We had both hoped Carly would take turducken to not be quite so sacrilegious as reindeer meat on the sixteenth of December.

"What?" Sam called after Carly a little surprised, "It's not like it's anything you wouldn't eat separately—"

"That's just wrong!" Carly shouted just before exiting the studio. In fast pursuit, no doubt, of the nearest toilet.

Leaving me alone with the one girl in the world that being alone with mattered.

Perspiration and the subdued set of jitters I'd had all night tangibly increased.

"Well, I guess there you have it," Sam declared, relatively cheerfully as she turned and smiled into the camera, "Stuffing dead animals parts into each other isn't appreciated by some people. Tune in next time, because there are starving children in Guam who can't." She leaned into the camera with an overly serious expression, taking off her Santa hat and solemnly holding it in front of her.

I consciously kept her plate of turducken in the shot. Which I imagined every starving kid from Guam would just love to see.

"Please …" she whispered dramatically, with a face that was ... exceptionally catching, exceptionally ... there, "... Think of the children."

Sadly I couldn't. Actually I couldn't think of much else besides that serious kind of face ... and all the situations where I would love to see that face. Situations, positions, or just that face in general. Or maybe just her face in general.

This proximity thing with her was getting worse. And now I was single, which I was discovering didn't help things.

Some time—more time than I'd meant to spend staring (though I hadn't meant to stare at all in the first place) passed, and then she was looking up at me.

I guess I might've forgotten to say that we were clear … Actually, I might've forgotten to get us clear too.

"Fredward," Sam said in an un-humored voice, "Do the one useful part of your job and press the button."

"Oh, uh," I masterfully fumbled as I did just that. Turning around hastily and going back to my laptop and not looking at her. "Right. Sorry."

"You're just lucky that there's a shortage of available tech weenies, or you'd probably find yourself unemployed," Sam commented offhandedly as she tossed her hat off to the side and dropped down into the nearest beanbag with her bottle of water.

"How would you know?" I asked quietly, managing to sneak a glance at her before my question brought her eyes back to me and I had to look down at my laptop, "You that familiar with the tech weenie market?"

"Mm," Sam said halfway through her drink of water as she pointed at me, "I'll drop props for that. See, it's just so much more fun when our particular tech weenie is able to—"

I probably should've let her go on. Maybe even have bantered some more, or at least done my best. Because I was enjoying this. Sadly, however, my current case of jitters made my fight or flight response temporarily tip in favor of the latter.

"Shouldn't we—you," I amended as I simultaneously fought to maintain and avoid eye contact with her. Trust me, it's difficult. And prone to producing a headache. "… Go check on Carly?"

Sam frowned, like I was an idiot. "I don't want to watch her throw up."

My fight to regain eye contact briefly triumphed as I sent her my "good friend and responsibilities" expression.

Sam groaned. "All right, all right. I'll go check on her. Geez, I didn't think she'd flip out over turducken, I mean it's just—"

And then she was on her feet and moving past me and towards the door and out of the sphere of this finite chance—for real—and I was panicking.

"Wait!" I blurted as I whirled.

Sam slowed a little, and looked back at me hesitantly.

Okay, this was the girl that I had been "trying" not to think about, remember? There were a lot of reasons for that, but one of them was because thinking about this girl also happened to make me think of this crazy plan that had involuntarily formed inside my head a while ago.

And as she stared back at me, looking all questioning and maybe even a little uncertain, this plan was there again. Sounding just as crazy as ever—not only because this was Sam. And I was me.

But she was staring at me, looking like that, being her, and I nearly lost it before even trying. I was experiencing an extreme shortage of nerve.

"What?" she asked carefully.

Just forget it, it's stupid.

"I, uh," stuttered a bit as I looked down at the ground and stepped towards her a little.

Don't do it, Freddie, don't do it! Run and hide—run and hide and never come back within ten miles of—

"I uh, was thinking—"

Sam smirked. "No, you weren't." But totally at ease isn't quite the phrase I would've used to describe her.

I laughed a little too much in a way that was a little embarrassing. Which didn't help my quite nearly overwhelming urge to flee this situation—in the most dignified manner possible of course.

"Yes, humor, ha ha, very funny, yes." I stopped my tension-inducing attempts at tension-relieving at her slightly impatient expression. I tried to clear my throat. And failed. "But anyway, I was um, just wondering if maybe, um … Well the other day I was just wondering if—"

"Just spit it out!" Sam abruptly broke.

And then it came out. The whole ugly, crazy, wince inducing thing.

"I-was-wondering-if-maybe-you'd-like-to-come-with-me-to-eat-somewhere-this-weekend," I said in one short gasp.

She was staring at me like I was going to have to repeat myself. Not that I blame her, since it wasn't like what I'd just said was all that intelligible—

"Are you serious?" Sam asked, like she was trying to feel out the big joke, "What … did you dump your girlfriend or something?"

I stopped breathing, and we just sort of stared at each other, with a whole lot of something pressing all around into me. Hard. My ears were ringing in this stillness that was abruptly here.

"Yes."

It was a quiet admittance. The kind that you don't think you're actually going to admit, even when you know you have to. The kind that doesn't sound real even as you're saying it.

Sam remained frozen for a pair of long seconds—before she turned into someone I practically didn't recognize.

"Really?" she asked so low I almost couldn't hear her. "I'm sorry."

Then she was fiddling with the bottom of her shirt and looking off to the side. "I … uh, don't know what I'm doing this weekend, but …"

I was experiencing some heady pounding sensations. Terrifying hope. The kind you're really not brave enough to indulge in.

"Saturday evening," I helpfully supply on a sawdust dry throat.

Seriously, what sort of biological benefit does losing all possession of spit in the event of extreme anxiety serve the human body? Seriously?

I felt obliged to continue. Somehow. "I mean ... nothing serious. Not like a ... you know …" I laughed a little, didn't utter that D word, and she laughed along with me.

Sorta. But not really.

Why Freddie, why?

It felt like a necessary evil, and to be honest I wouldn't mind starting with a "not date" with her, to at least see how things fell. Labeling this as such was a necessary evil. One that made the way her eyes moved almost disappointedly off to the side downright awful. Because at no point in time should anything make her look like that. Especially me.

Guilt and fear.

But then she was looking up at me like she was two feet tall. Stilts included.

"… Okay." She swallowed and seemed to regain a little of her composure. "I think I should be able to."

It was like I could breath again. And live to see my sixteenth birthday, and—

"That's great!" I breathed, almost succeeding in not sounding like I was excited. Or thrilled, or borderline ecstatic, or terrified in several all new terrifying ways, or—

I guess Carly's reentrance wasn't as awkward as it could've been. Like say if she'd picked half a minute ago. It was actually kind of nice, timing wise.

"Hey!" Sam said, turning quickly towards her. Evidently every bit aware of good timing as I was. "You're alive!"

"Barely!" Carly shot back, still sounding maybe two thirds incensed. "I thought you said that you were going to be taking it easy on me! What would've been hard? Sautéed Chilean monkey toes?"

"Hey," Sam said with a tone that was already sinking into defensive, "You're the one who had me chomping on duck feet—"

"Oh, like you minded—"

I was about to try to intervene but ... there were plenty of appealing reasons for letting them settle out their differences while I laid low for a bit. And recovered.

As I went through my post show routine, I kept half an eye on them. Not that I could really keep from smiling even when I wasn't looking.

--

Carly was animated. Animated and merrily humming Jingle Bells whenever she wasn't chattering at me. Experiencing her now, it probably would've been difficult to guess that she'd been gagging on her first experience of turducken not an hour ago.

"Oh," Carly leaned against my shoulder at the kitchen table, "Did I mention that we're going to Virginia to meet my dad? Did I? Did I?" She punctuated each question with a poke in my arm as she happily crunched at the end of her candy cane in her non-poking hand.

"Yes," I said, trying hard to sound annoyed. It actually was kind of annoying whenever she took to poking my touch pad arm, because it threw the cursor all over my laptop screen. I was trying to break down this show's statistics to her. Trying. "Only about ten times in the last hour."

But I couldn't manage to work up a very annoyed tone because she was Carly and ... well, I was pretty happy for her. And not just because of certain Shay family phone calls I'd accidentally overheard. Though it did kinda stink that Carly was going to be gone for some significant portion of Christmas break.

I should tell her. Right now, while Sam was momentarily gone. But I was scared half to death that she would come back at any moment—and really, I was just scared period of telling Carly I'd just asked our best friend out.

I was ... picking my moment. Yeah, that sounded good. Good and in control. My moment just hadn't come yet.

"Have you guys decided when you're leaving?" I asked instead as I scrolled down my page.

Carly leaned back in her chair, "Well, at first we were hoping he would be able to get leave for right over Christmas—and we actually thought that he was going to come out here. That's what he said, anyway."

"Oh ... really?" I asked, not quite attaining casualness.

"Yeah," Carly said as she put her elbows on the table and her head on top of her hands, leaning in closer to see what I was looking at.

I remember a time not all that long ago when I would've been lapping this up. In fact, when I stopped to analyze it for very long, I experienced some residual guilt at passing this up. But beyond lingering residualness, there was ... not much else. It was kind of cool, actually.

It was incredible how free I was presently feeling, even after just committing myself to the opening stages of another relationship.

It was like I could do anything now. Go swim the English Channel. Climb Everest, twice.

Even date Sam Puckett.

"So it's actually going to be sometime more around New Years. Yup," she gave a dreamy sigh as she leaned into my shoulder and looked up at me, "Virginia for New Years."

I summoned up a smile, because come on. Residual guilt or not, this was Carly Shay leaning against me and looking like that. But just as quickly she was on her feet and pacing around the table again.

"I wonder what you're supposed to wear in Virginia," she went on excitedly, "It's like ... a whole 'nother ocean! Have you ever been there?"

"Nope." I looked up at her, finding it next to impossible not to get happy for her all over again. What with the way she was frowning down at the end of the table. Because after all, the differing nuances of wardrobe between Seattle and Virginia ranked as a dilemma right up there with world hunger. "But I guess this means you won't be able to come to my mom's New Years party."

"That's right!" Carly exclaimed almost happily, but then looked at me again, half-heartedly guilt stricken, "Not to say that your mom isn't awesome! She is—and I'm sure her parties are … as well …"

"Don't worry," I laughed a little, "It's probably only going to be a couple of her work associates that she'll be able to con into coming. Yup, it'll be another awesome New Years countdown with my mom and way too much sugarless—soulless fruit punch." I paused, looking at her seriously. "But I'm happy for you. I really am."

She looked up at me in shock, as if just now realizing that we were alone—it was just me, her, and no Sam. I'm surprised it took her so long.

"Speaking of happy," she started excitedly as she returned to the chair beside me, "How are you? I mean have you given any thought to ... asking any certain iCarly cast mates to spend a little quality time together? Hm?"

Impossible not to grin. Widely, maybe even cheekily. "Maybe ..."

Carly had some kind of intuition that mildly scared me. "Oh, my gosh, did you already ask her?"

I flinched, surprised, to say the least. " ... Maybe?" I managed.

Carly got all serious and demanding. With a no nonsense look to boot. "You don't maybe ask a girl out, Freddie. Yes or no?"

I was about to answer, but then went back to what I'd actually said to Sam. About it not really being a date. And I began to feel really stupid. "I uh ... yes? Kind of. But I might've ... kind've ... told her that it was no big deal—"

Smack.

"What!" Carly half shouted, looking like she was going to smack the top of my head again. "You did what!?"

"Shh, shh!" I frantically conveyed ssh-ing sentiments at her verbally and with some phrenetic gesturing. Sam was only just in the bathroom, after all. "I had to!"

She did smack me again.

"You had to?" Carly went on. Just a touch or two below livid. "You never ask a girl out and then tell her it's no big deal!"

"But—"

Smack.

"That's a real great way to let her know how important she is! What were you thinking?" Carly asked, all but spitting moral outrage. After all, I ranked right up there with Stalin and Benedict Arnold.

"I don't know," I admitted helplessly, "I just got ... scared, I guess. I didn't think she would actually say yes—"

"She said yes?" Carly all but squealed. Nah, she did squeal.

I was grinning again. "Well, sorta—"

"Freddie, a girl doesn't—"

"Yeah, yeah," I said, "I know, yes or no. Well ..." more smiling. By this point it was getting painful. "... Yes. She said yes!"

"That's great!" Carly said as she grabbed me into a hug, but then just as quickly was pulling me up and out of my seat. "But wait, what are you doing here? You've got to leave, go, go, now, now!"

"What?" I tried as I managed to grab my laptop up before Carly was bustling me out of the kitchen. "Wait—what, why?"
"You can't be here!" Carly hurriedly explained as we crossed the living room, "We've got to talk—girl talk, and not with you! You've got to go—no wonder she was acting so weird—Come on Freddie! Out, out—"

"Okay, okay," I said as she opened the door and more or less ejected me from the apartment, "But shouldn't I at least say good bye—"

"No!" Carly answered and then slammed the door behind me. I stood there staring at it for a moment.

A pair of heartbeats passed and then she abruptly opened it again and briefly peeked her head out, "I'll call you with instructions!"

"But wait, isn't this my—"

"No!" she replied primly, "Because you obviously don't know how to handle this situation with the maturity it deserves."

Then the door slammed with a note of finality. I heard her click the lock in place.

I stared at it.

"Girls," I muttered.

"Freddie, is that you?" my mom's voice came from inside our apartment, "What have I told you about slamming doors?"

Sometimes I felt like I was surrounded.

--

Me and that girl I had just asked out pretended like nothing was wrong. Astronomically, logically, horrendously, perfectly wrong. That contrasted almost painfully with the excruciating verbatim that I was getting non-stop from Carly about general first date etiquette and protocol. As if I didn't already know, and as if merely knowing it would guarantee anything. I think she actually wanted this to work more than I did.

So Sam and I talked/insulted like usual, if maybe a little bit more quietly. And Carly drilled me like I was going to storm Normandy beach. Heh, if only I had something easy like that to do.

The days flew. The weekend came. Nothing would slow down.

I would've been fine if I'd been nervous. I would've loved merely being anxious.

There was only one fleeting chance at this, and infinite ways to screw it up. And that didn't even begin to account for how she was going to react. Did she even like me? Well, she said yes, right? But what if she was only going because she thought that it was "not serious?" What if—

Needless to say these things were running through my head non-stop. Actually, it seemed like every memory that I ever could claim to have of Sam was running through my head non-stop, commercial free.

And then it was Saturday.

And then it was time to go to Carly's to meet Sam.

Well, actually it was about half an hour early, but I was getting tired of beating off my mom and her blow dryer and other assorted instruments of pre-date torture. I'm just happy that all the weird reasons I'd given her why Spencer should drive us had worked.

"Hi," I said as Carly answered the door.

"What are you doing here?" Carly burst out, "You're not supposed to be here for another half hour!"

My face fell. "Oh ... she's here, isn't she?"

That obvious thought hadn't occurred to me between all these bouts of my mom and craziness. Not that there's a massive distinction between the two.

"She's been here for the past two hours!" Carly exclaimed, already trying to push me back out into the hall. "Go back home for a little bit—"

"I can't—" I said. Okay, I could, but— "My mom is on the warpath and I—"

Carly made her aww sound. She dragged me inside and frantically looked around. "Here! I mean there! Go hide—I mean stay in the bathroom, for at least fifteen minutes—go, go!"

By this point she'd almost already shoved me inside. I tried to put up some nominal protests, but then I was inside the bathroom and alone and temporarily insulated from everything.

Not really, because I immediately attacked my image in the mirror, going over every square nanometer of my face again. And then my hair, and then my plan—if you could call it that after everything Carly had force-fed me. Not that I was going to stick entirely to it. She'd mostly kept it basic and straightforward anyway.

"Freddie, Freddie, what are you doing?" I murmured, kinda pathetically as I stared at the jittery dork in trouble staring back at me. "It's not too late. Just hop a bus, and you can be in Vancouver in—"

I started pacing.

Fifteen minutes? At the rate my heart was pumping, I could be dead in ten.

I tried jumping up and down, running in place—none of it helped. Every other part of me felt like it was jumping.

Sam, Sam, I can't believe I'm actually doing this.

"I'm actually doing this!"

She had said yes. She had said yes to me. I leaned into the mirror, alternately staring into each eye. "I'm going to do this. I'm going to do this. I'm going to rock her socks, show her—something ... I'm going to do this."

And then after shooting at the mirror with my um ... fingers, and then grabbing my hair and jumping up and down again, and being beyond thankful that no one was watching this ... I was ready to repeat the process again.

"I'm not going to do this," I stared at the scared little kid looking back at me. "I can't do this, how can I do this? How can she like me, she's Sam. I'm going to—ugh."

Vomit. Maybe I could get rid of all this that way. I certainly felt up to it.

I quickly left the bathroom. Not that I actually believed that getting away from the sight of the toilet would actually keep me from throwing up.

"Hey, Spencer," I said as I jumped up on one of the barstools next to the kitchen.

Spencer turned and gave me an encouraging look. "There's the man! How's the killer feeling?"

My hand was tapping/jumping all over the counter top. And I could not stop it.

"Great," I kinda lied, "Calm. Very collected. Feeling ready to kill ... or probably die. Yup, I think it's probably closer to being ready to die."

Spencer gave me a knowing smile and leaned towards me over the counter. "Understandable. This is ... kinda weird actually. But great, I would've never guessed ..." he was smiling off into the air, but then he looked back towards me, "I don't want to ... give things away that I'm not supposed to. Buuuuut ... I don't think you're the only one that's nervous."

"Really?" I'd like to think that didn't come out as a squeak.

Spencer pulled back and wildly put his arms up in the air. "You didn't hear it from me!"

Wow. It was like this horribly exciting thing, to imagine that Sam might be somewhere, even anywhere near as nervous as I was. That she might actually care...

But this was just a casual thing, right? Sure it was by no means a "not serious" thing, but casual. This was casual. I just had to play it cool. I could do that, I could play it—

"Hey, look. Freddie's already here," Carly said in a not altogether convincing kind of surprise a moment after I heard footsteps on the stairs.

But I wasn't looking at Carly.

Aw, crap.

She looked ridiculously good. Granted, she was wearing "casual" clothes, but there was something distinctly different. Granted, I knew enough about girls to know that Carly (at least) had been agonizing on this for the past however many hours, and it showed. From her hair to her face to … her.

I'm a guy. For better or worse I don't have the ability to sufficiently describe all the fine distinctions of just how exactly a girl looks different in date garb.

Her hair was definitely different. How? More straight … I guess? Definitely more shiny, definitely … enough to make this energy that was pounding so recklessly through me make everything shake.

And I guess that was about as complicated as it had to get.

But it was more than just the stunning crispness of what she was wearing, and how she was made up. It was even more than just the mere fact that she was looking like that for me. It was ... everything that went along with Sam looking beautiful.

Yeah. How was I supposed to play anything casual with her looking like that?

Our eyes had locked when she'd reached the landing, and immediately she fell into an almost timid looking expression as she and Carly had come down the stairs. But she was smiling a tiny bit, and when they stopped in front of me, it was her turn to take in my attire.

Not that it was anything spectacular. Just a casual notch above what I usually wore. But the way she seemed to ... react favorably was kinda nice. Kinda awesome.

"Hey," she said quietly, her smile having grown from a tiny bit to a quite a bit now that we were looking at each other.

Heady. Everything was so heady. "Hey," I replied, because it wasn't like there was anything else in the English language that I could pronounce.

"So ..." Carly said when it became obvious that was all we were going to say. She looked almost disappointed, and actually spent a moment trying to communicate something to me with her face, but sadly I wasn't able to translate it. "You're a little early, tiger, aren't you?"

"Yeah," I murmured, brain whirling under the pressure of Sam's eyes and the need to not bring up my mother issues, "I uh ... Spencer told me that he wanted to show me his new sculpture!"

Spencer quite understandably looked surprised. "I did?" He took in my furious head gesturing. "I did! ... In fact it's ... actually not started yet. Silly me," he laughed and then leaned against the counter, "Between putting up decorations and my annual Christmas sculpture I haven't actually …" he put his hands out in front of him, "Started started it. As in physically started it. But ... I could let you guys in on the making of the genius." He attempted a suave tone. "Just hit the Special Features icon on your DVD menu."

Silence.

Spencer cleared his throat, "Anyway, it came to me yesterday while I was in the bathroom on the ... uh, on the phone, that it occurred to me that a lot of common household items get celebrated, but no one really celebrates the idea of celebrating common household items ..."

We all settled in around the kitchen island for what promised to be at least a mildly entertaining explanation. I looked around at the others, not really paying much heed to this method of killing fifteen minutes or so, but it suddenly struck me as ... about as good as it got.

Not that I was listening all that closely. I mean it was kind of hard to with Sam being right here. Smiling like that as she listened. Occasionally almost looking over at me too.

--

Her lips kept twitching and her eyes were wandering a lot. Not that I particularly blamed her. The alternative was staring back at me.

It was a nice Italian restaurant. With small couples' tables and low lighting and an assorted age range of patrons. Keeping with the season, they had Christmas lights and garland along the ceilings and all the employees were wearing Santa hats.

Our waitress came with our salads and provided another distraction in addition to looking over the menus. Not that I really wanted to be distracted, but so far our small talk endeavors had panned out ... okay. A little forced, a little stilted, but ... okay, I guess.

"So ..." I tried, again, even though we'd already hit on the food topic, "Are you sure you want the mozzarella lasagna?"

"Yeah ..." she answered quietly, frowning a bit, "Pretty sure."

Well, this was terrific. Come on, Freddie. Converse.

I just had to stop being so distracted with staring at her—in all her date garb brilliance and just talk—

"I never asked you," Sam suddenly spoke up, "How come you weren't in Chemistry on Monday?"

"Oh," I stalled, a little taken aback. Somewhat because it had been partly due to breaking up with Amelia the night before. "I went to the nurse's office because I really wasn't feeling well. But it wasn't bad enough to go home or anything."

"Oh," Sam said in a not quite natural tone, nodding as she looked off to the side, "It seems like you've been getting sick a lot since ... lately."

She was looking at me then. And I was looking back, needing to say something honest.

"I don't think I ever got well." I said it simply.

She stared at me for a long moment, before looking back down at her salad.

I was going to say something more—apologize, I think, for all the stuff that had happened after the whole sick thing, but our waitress came back to take our orders.

It's hardly a rare thing for employees of food establishments to give Sam raised eyebrows whenever she ordered, but now it was my turn. I was ... surprised at her restraint.

Geez, Carly really was a date planning Nazi.

But as soon as the waitress left and Sam was out of salad, I guess she sort of compensated by stealing a forkful of my salad. I let the repetitions of this fairly consistent event go on, but my mind wasn't really on salads or even relatively meager orders.

She of course noticed my demeanor pretty fast, but she let it go for a minute or two before finally giving me a questioning expression.

I pursed my lips. Fine. It was going to happen. It terrified me to even think of verbally going into any one of our many unmentionable subjects, but I could do it. After all, she was here. I was here. I was doing this.

"Okay, let's get something straight right now," I said.

Sam swallowed her mouthful of my salad. "Shouldn't we stick to things like what our favorite colors—"

"No," I cut her off, striving for a vigorous tone. "We're going to get this all out, and we're going to do it now."

"Okay, okay," she answered quietly, "No need to get so assertive."

I seriously loved it when she went along with me and my rare bouts of assertiveness.

"We're going to lay this out on the table," I gestured with my hands, "All of it, and get the whole truth out."

She frowned. With those distracting eyebrows of—Focus, Freddie, focus!

"First you're going to have to stop talking in vague metaphors so I can know what you're talking about," Sam said.

"You know what I'm talking about," I shot back, not really up to games at this point. I was trying to be to the point, dang it.

"No," she said with a shake of her head, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Well, let's start with why you're here." I raised my eyebrows, trying to match her degree of calm challenging. It didn't usually work, and I didn't really expect it to now.

Sam shrugged indifferently. "Cause I like free food?"

I was going to get her to admit that this was the D word. That seemed like a good place to start. A good plan. "Oh, yeah? How do you know it's free?"

She kind of laughed. "Because I'm not paying for it."

I hated being outsmarted.

"But—that ..." wasn't fair. Why couldn't she ever just work with me? "Why can't you just admit why you're here?"

"Why can't you?" Sam shot back.

I paused. And then spoke quietly, almost timidly, "Well ... I asked you first."

"Come on, Benson," Sam said with that unenthused look of hers, "You're the guy. The guy always goes first."

"Aha!" I half leapt to my feet as I pointed. "The guy only goes first when he's out on a date with someone. Just admit that this is a date."

"No," Sam hesitated, looking kind of angry, "This is nothing special. Remember? Isn't that what you said?"

I groaned and sank back in my chair. "Why can't you ever just make things easy?"

Looking kind of defensive, that she was, "What are you talking about? I always make things easy."

"Oh, right," I rolled my eyes, "You just try so hard to make things easy."

"Easy?" she asked through gritted teeth, "You want to talk about easy? Is it easy having to deal with someone like you all the time, who has tartar sauce for brains—"

"At least I've got brains—" I returned reflexively.

"Do you think it's easy having to deal with someone who completely messes up everything, without even knowing it because he's so dense!—"

I let that one go, because she was kind of venting with all the caution of a careening freight train. And ... as she went further, her voice kept dipping higher and more—

"Easy? Easy!?" Sam's hands were planted firmly on the table by now as she leaned over at me, "And do you think it's easy having to spend three days with you—in your house? Where everything smells like you—"

She stopped so abruptly. As if she was just now starting to become self-conscious.

It was more in the way she said it that had hit me. Left me sitting there in our corner of the restaurant, with all the people staring at us, and me sitting, feeling numb.

Sam quickly sat back down in her seat and drew herself in. "Because you smell awful," she added quietly, but the damage was long done.

It was a thoroughly unpleasant silence. The crawly kind.

I was half glad when our waitress finally arrived with a slightly scolding expression.

"Excuse me, but you're going to have to keep the noise level down, or we're going to have to ask you to leave."

I saw Sam glance up at her with a lost look.

"We're sorry," I said quietly, in my best behavior tone of voice, "We're done. We won't bother anyone any more."

She left.

All the eyes that had been on us slowly went back to their own means. The slightly amused ones taking a little bit longer than the rest.

I felt really guilty. Which was really weird, because it wasn't as if I had made Sam admit anything. Not that I was completely sure that she had, but it was hard to take it any other way. It was just how she'd said it ...

I had to say something. I guess the whole guilty thing jogged my memory of the stuff I was supposed to be saying.

Ah, man … And that was probably what Carly had been looking at me like that for.

Stupid, stupid.

"I uh, guess I never told that you look pretty."

Sam looked up at me, still looking somewhere between lost and mortified.

"Well," I stuttered uncomfortably at her lack of reaction, "You do—I think you do."

"Thanks," she said quietly as she kept her eyes back down on her salad bowl.

I didn't feel much better.

"Listen," I started again, because I just couldn't stand her like this, "I'm ... really sorry. So sorry about everything."

"What?"

I made a frustrated face. "Everything. I mean ... since when we were sick."

She was still looking at me so quietly. "I don't want you to apologize."

I pounded a fist on the table. People looked again, but whatever.

"Then what do you want?" I demanded.

She went to say something, but stopped. Then shrugged.

"Oh, come on," I prodded on, trying to jerk her out of this. I literally could not stand her this. "Is it really that awful that you admitted to liking me?"

That did it.

"What? I did not!" she said, trying to sound disgusted.

"Yes, you did," I jabbed a finger at her, "Not even five minutes ago."

"How?" she pressed, "And just how did I do that?"

"You ..." I trailed off, smacking into the problem that I didn't exactly have obvious, concrete proof or anything. "I ... just know, that's all."

Sam held up her hands, pretending to be impressed. "Whoa, when did you become Yoda?"

"Oh, come on, Puckett," I went on, "Why is it such a hard thing just to admit it?"

"Admit what? That I know you still wet the bed?"

"There you go again," I grandly threw my hand out into the air, "You always just have to cover anything serious with an insult."

"At least you can admit that bedwetting is a serious problem," Sam said, rising to her feet as well.

Everything was uncomfortably hot by this point.

"At least I can admit that you're being ridiculous," I shot back.

"It takes two," she returned.

"It does not!" I answered in exasperation.

"So why can't you just admit it? If it's so easy?" Sam inquired sarcastically.

"Admit what? There's nothing to admit." It was out of my mouth before I could consider if I really wanted to lie that badly.

"Then why do you care so much if I admit it?"

"Oh, so there is something to admit?" I pounced.

"Ugh," Sam groaned passionately as she stepped around the table a bit as I came around at her a bit. "You're such a complete nub."

My movement towards her was mostly unconscious. Honestly. It stemmed from an unconscious urge to shake her violently. Only by now I've realize that my inclinations to do her harm are really just sidetracked inclinations to do other stuff, like kiss her senseless.

I was starting to figure this stuff out, slowly but painfully. I really was.

"Admit it, just admit it," I enunciated at her as I moved around the table a little more and she moved the other way.

"You admit it!" she half shouted.

"Fine," I said with some exasperation, changing tracks as I conceded a little. Which was a lot more than I'd started out being willing to suffer. "If I asked you on another date, would you admit it?"

"Oh," Sam said sardonically, "So you admit that this is a date."

My finger involuntarily came up at her. "Don't put words in my mouth!"

"I'd like to punch your mouth!"

"Do it!" some customer from behind us shouted.

I jerked my head over towards our considerable audience I kept forgetting about, also spotting our waitress angrily stalking towards us again.

"So would you say yes if I asked you on another date?" I asked quickly.

"Fine," Sam ground out.

"Yeah?" I asked.

"Great."

"Wonderful," I answered.

"Peachy," Sam muttered as she sat down.

I did the same, feeling weird because it was a different side of the restaurant I was facing. I hadn't realized that we had circled completely around the table.

"Well, that's it then," I declared.

Someone sarcastically applauded as we gathered our stuff together. After switching seats.

Our waitress arrived, looking heedless of our plates of food that she was carrying. "We're going to have to—"

"Yeah, yeah," Sam answered as she pulled on her jacket, "We're leaving."

I gave Sam what I hoped was my most annoyed expression as I pulled out my wallet for the food we couldn't eat.

Though Sam did grab a handful of my bread sticks as she passed our waitress.

Okay ... this isn't going to be as easy as I thought, I thought as we walked out into the cold.

I guess it was kind of hard to find a sunset to ride off into after five in December.

But Sam, and more importantly Sam's stomach, broke down—even from where I was standing it sounded like it was breaking up concrete—leading to small talk about the nearest fast food place we could hike to.

While a fast food restaurant wasn't exactly a sunset, I was game, and small talk about food led to small talk about maybe a follow up trip for some smoothies—Sam being oh-so-ever gracious about my willingness to pay for everything. But all of this thankfully led to other small talk eventually. Easy and ... small small talk that didn't matter. That wasn't going to pry any sort of life changing confessions from either of us anytime soon.

But it was okay. I realized that I wasn't really in any particularly big hurry.

Though somewhere in the midst of Sam's musings of how smoothies could be so great year round, I found it impossible to take it anymore.

I grabbed her hand, and she didn't resist.

--

AN: Ugh, I don't know. I feel like I could spend another weeek on this and still not get it right. But I do know that I want to wish everyone a safe and happy Thanksgiving.