Sam Evans' Theory of Holistic Ice Cream Therapy

Santana hadn't moved from her bed all day. Her mom and dad had bribed her with her favorite breakfast (barbacoa on top of waffles), threatened to ground her if she missed school (didn't matter), and all out begged. Nothing worked. She stayed there, staring out the window. After a while she lost track of time and fell asleep.


"She's in her room."

"Thanks, ma'am."

It was a boy's voice, but Santana couldn't be bothered to figure out which Gleek it was. The door creaked open. "Not in the mood to deal with you, Finnocence," she mumbled.

"That's why I told him to stay away."

"Sam?"

"That's my name. Unless, of course, you've decided to go back to Trouty mouth," Sam said, sitting next to her.

"You told Finn to stay away?"

"Yelled at him is probably a more accurate description. I figured you needed time to think, and wouldn't want the Glee club swarming you, telling you to cheer up. It's okay to be sad once in a while, even if other people don't want you to be."

"You make a lot of sense, Guppy Lips," she told him.

Sam noticed how defeated she sounded. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Santana, I'm not here to try to make you feel better. But I do want to make sure you're taking care of yourself. Please come downstairs? I'll cook anything you want—provided I can cook it in the microwave…" he added.

Santana snorted. She didn't feel like being comforted. She didn't feel anything at the moment—just emptiness. Still, a calm home invasion by Trouty Mouth was better than being forcefully expelled from her depression by Frankenteen. "Give me two minutes to put some clothes on," she muttered.

"Er…right…clothes. Meet you downstairs."

It took all of her strength, but Santana managed to throw on some sweats and walk downstairs. When she got to the kitchen she stopped and quirked an eyebrow. "Are we going into business?" On the counter sat every type of ice cream topping imaginable. Sam was currently scooping generous amounts of vanilla ice cream into two bowls.

"No," he answered. "I'm introducing you to the Sam Evans Theory of Holistic Ice Cream Therapy."

"Got a patent on that name?"

"Working on it." He passed a bowl to her. "Now, the key to this is that you have to designate an emotion for every topping."

"Thought you weren't here to make me feel better…."

"I'm not," he said, grabbing the chocolate syrup. "If you're still upset by the time I leave, and it would be completely understandable, that's fine. But at least you know what you're feeling."

"When did you turn into a hippy?"

"Somewhere between living in a motel and becoming an exotic dancer."

She stared at him for a moment, and then took the chocolate syrup. "Depression." She topped it with nuts, strawberry syrup, and whipped cream. "Confusion, rage, self-loathing." After a moment, she grabbed the marshmallow fluff as well. "Frustration. There. Santana's sundae of hate."

"Sam's sundae of fail."

"How did you fail?" Santana asked, finding a spoon among the bottles of toppings.

"Mercedes…I don't want to talk about it. Want to talk about Brittany?"

"No."

They stood there, slowly eating their ice cream. Finally, Sam said, "I'll stay here until your parents get back."

"You don't have to. I'm not going to jump off the roof."

"I'm not worried about you jumping off the roof, but that was a whole lot of self-loathing whipped cream you topped your ice cream with. Come on, I won't bug you or try to get you to talk. Let's just watch movies."

"Fine. But I get to pick the first one."

They settled onto the couch. Sam groaned when he saw the opening credits to Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but didn't complain.

"Hey Guppy Lips?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

Sam smiled. "No problem, Santana."