Yeah, I remember my name now, and what I do for a living, and all those details -- I hope it's all of them, anyway. How do you know if some piece doesn't come back? That's what's been sticking in my craw, wherever (and whatever) the hell my craw is, since I stepped on that crystal.

Anya bustles on ahead of me as I wrestle the keys out of the lock; they always seem to stick. She chatters about the shipment she's expecting, excited that Giles has finally left the place to her to run.

It feels weird to me, like walking into a place I've never been. There should be a word for that, like the reverse of deja vu. Maybe the French have that one covered, too. Since Willow's spell made me see the Magic Box with the eyes of a stranger, it's like I can't see it as familiar.

I know that makes no sense. It's why I haven't said anything to An. I drift around the front of the store, picking things up, putting them down.

I inspect a gnarled looking mummy part. "Hey, An. Is this a monkey's paw or a mojo hand?"

She steams up to me, plucking it out of my hand and putting it back. "Xander, it's never a good idea to talk when you're holding an unidentified magical object. You could end up in the Middle Ages. Or a horse's ass. Anything could happen."

"Sorry." That horse's ass remark seems kind of pointed to me. There's been sex since the whole all-singing, all-dancing Technicolor thing, but I think she's still exercised about the duet. If I loved her, I wouldn't be having doubts.

Like she wasn't adding her own dark little thoughts to the song. That's different, she said. She's had so much professional contact with bad relationships that it's natural she'd have doubts.

Right. Me, I'm just a bystander -- possibly not so innocent -- to one train wreck of a marriage. Completely amateur. Doesn't count.

What does it mean that Anya gravitated toward Giles when she was in the throes of amnesia? Shouldn't she have known her fiance anywhere?

(Except I hadn't known her.)

"If you're going to wander around touching things, why don't you get the feather duster and make yourself useful?"

"I dunno. Jittery as I am, I'll probably break the merch." That's all I need to say. There's some expensive breakables in this place. "Why don't I walk over to the Espresso Pump and get us both a latte."

She readily agrees, and I'm free. Well, of dusting duties, but not free of my thoughts.

Who am I, really?

A son? Not much of one since I got out of the basement. I finally took Anya over for dinner one night to break the news about our engagement. That was an excruciating forty-five minutes, not even considering the food. Really, I think the only reason I invited them to the wedding is the thought of how it would look if I didn't. Instead I can envision the embarrassment of their presence. I considered a boozeless wedding, but Anya won't hear of it. When I brought up the idea, she asked me if I was some kind of closet Baptist.

Am I husband material? I want to think so. But I have a hard time imagining that without visions of my old man getting in the way. I hear him sometimes, in the way I talk to Anya. Can't tell which scares me more, the wedding or the marriage. It's just nerves, I tell myself. That's all. No one else has any advice, because I've been keeping all this to myself.

I'm a damn good carpenter, and a decent foreman. There's a rare statement I don't have to look at a dozen different ways, wondering how I'm deluding myself. Sometimes I marvel, though, at the dumb luck that brought me to this kind of work. Even my old man has nothing negative to say about it. If he were capable of doing impressed, I think he'd be impressed.

When I get to the Pump, the morning rush is on, so I take my place in the line, making a joke to the woman in front of me about the Precious Elixir of Life. She flirts back for a moment, but we're both too caffeine-deprived to sustain -- wait. That was not flirting. Just friendly chat because we're stuck in a line, that's all. One thing I am not is the kind of guy who flirts with other women.

Because I've never told a lie I didn't get called on -- except one -- this is the precise moment that Willow walks into the coffee shop. She looks like shit -- like she hasn't slept for nights. I thought she'd hit bottom after Oz left that first time, but this is worse.

She doesn't even see me until I speak. "Will, hey. Tell me what you're having, and I'll treat."

"Just coffee. Black." Black like her mood.

I'm up next, so I order the coffee and a mocha for myself, and when the barista hands them over, I lead Will to the corner table. Once we're settled in, I can't really think of anything to say. That used to be who I was too, the sympathetic friend, the guy who'd do anything to make a friend feel better. But this thing Willow did -- I'm not right with it yet. Finally I settle for the inanely inadequate. "So how's it going?"

"Everything's going," she says to the coffee. "Everyone. Tara. Giles."

I have to admit, I never saw that coming. Giles going. I think there's a country song title in there somewhere. Tara -- well, not so hard to predict.

"I know." I lay my hand on her forearm, stroke my thumb over her wrist. "I'm sorry. I know from experience it's even worse when all you can think is how it's your own damn fault."

Willow's head snaps up then, and ah, fuck, I've stepped into deep shit. "You think I deserved Tara leaving me?"

"No! Jesus, no. Nothing like that at all."

"But you think I should be thinking this is my fault."

"No. Totally not what I meant." When did I develop a stutter? "I just know that I tend to do the self-blame thing, when -- when --"

"I seem to remember when you and Cordy broke up, it was your fault."

More like ours. But Willow dodged that bullet, so it's easy for her to forget it takes two. Don't go there. When Will's hurting, it doesn't take much for her to feel attacked. "Yeah. Yeah, it was. Lest we forget."

"You're the one casting blame, it seems to me."

"It's not what I meant." I've always hated fighting with Willow. It's not just that I'm hopelessly outclassed in terms of mental weaponry. She's easy to hurt. And I'd never tell her this, but sometimes that makes her lash out. "Please. Just forget it."

Great. Fantastic choice of words, Harris.

"We've all had such a hard time lately. Tara's so upset, and Buffy's still suffering -- I just wanted to do something. Make things easier."

It's not like this is a giant shift in character. Willow's always had a hard time seeing her friends unhappy or angry, and she's always felt like it's been up to her to do something about it. The difference is, now she can. I reach for her again, this time taking her hand. "Will," I say as gently as I can. "It's just that -- our memories are who we are. And Tara's especially sensitive about that right now, after Glory went rummaging around in her head. I don't even have the same kind of issues, and it spun me a little." A little. There's some understatement for you, and I still think maybe I've gone too far.

"Yeah." Her tone is semi-apologetic, but is that supposed to be an apology? "You weren't supposed to be affected by that spell at all." This is the thing. She can admit she did the spell wrong, but not that she was wrong to do the spell. After that big fight she and Tara had at our place the other night (Anya listened through a water glass held to the door and gave a live exclusive report; I considered it enough of a victory that she left the actual room), Willow still doesn't get that. She's telling me about a spark from the fireplace and the unfortunate immolation of her Big Bag o' Forgettin' Herbs (Sam's Club size), setting up a colossal wall of words between her and what's really wrong.

"Guess you know how that feels," Willow says. "I mean with the spell that backfires and slops all over everyone."

Wow. Surprising how much that stings after all these years. "Yeah." I choose my words carefully, not something I'm particularly known for. "I remember how upset you were, having your feelings screwed with that way. I didn't know at first if you'd ever speak to me again."

I hold my breath for a moment, waiting to see if she's going to make the connection. "I know. But when you've been friends as long as we have, it's all about the letting go of things. God, who can even count the things we've let slide over the years. Like the stuff you did when you were running with Kyle and those jerks."

When I --

She's right. Another less-than-steller Xander Harris moment. Yeah, I was possessed, but it was still me in there somewhere. I sliced Willow open and pulled out her insides for the entertainment of a pack of pure-D shitheads.

"Or that time when your folks took us out for my fourteenth birthday."

I try to scrape up a smile. "God, yeah. That was an event." The old man had been on a tear after some kind of trouble with his boss, got himself plastered at dinner. I'd actually skipped three days of school after that, working the strep angle. I hadn't wanted to see anyone ever again. "Will," I say brightly, before she can come up with anything else. "How about a refill?"

"No, I should be getting to campus. I missed an exam, and I need to find the prof during his office hours."

I have this quick stab of curiosity about whether her prof is going to forget the whole matter, but I push it back. Some shitty way to be thinking about my best friend. I'm still a prick, nothing's changed there.

She starts gathering up her messenger bag and her sweater. "Xander, if you happen to see Tara --"

"Yeah?"

"Would you talk to her? Try to get her to call me."

"Of course, Willow, anything."

She pulls me into an awkward hug, the both of us still seated. "You're still my best fella."

Sure.

She pulls back from the embrace, then squints at me. "You okay?" She curls her fingers under my chin and rubs her thumb over the corner of my mouth, like a maternal spit bath.

"Yeah, yeah, fine."

"You're sure? You look like you got a little blue on you."

I come up with a smile from somewhere. "Totally good. You get to your prof."

So easy to forget, but it's true: It's your oldest friends who can show you back to yourself when you think you've lost your way.

I take our coffee cups to the busboy's tray, stuff a dollar in the tip jar, and head back to the Magic Box.