Devon stuck his head out the sliding glass door experimentally. An unruly wind answered him with a slap in the face. His loose shirt flapped about him as he made his way onto the tiny balcony and shut the door behind him. He could feel his hair tangling as it blew into his face, and he sighed.

On a normal night back at home, he’d be practicing with the band, or hooking up with a chick, or at least hanging out with Oz, who seemed to have less and less time for that sort of thing nowadays. On a normal night back home, Devon would be having a decent time of it.

Instead, he was staring off into the crashing waves from the balcony of his parents beach house to get away from the noise of his parents fighting. It was a truly horrible sound, and he’d had enough.

He heard the muted sound of a slamming door. It would be safe to go in now.

But he wouldn’t.

He didn’t want to talk to the loser today and commiserate. He was tired of commiserating. It got him absolutely nowhere.

He watched the waves, as they became more tumultuous. The balconies surrounding him were all empty, except for the soaked swimsuits and drenched towels that hung on the banister to dry. He wondered if anyone was watching him from the beach—if anyone was wondering about him, sitting there all alone.

He smiled self-effacingly and ran a hand through his messy hair. Of course not. The beach was empty.

He leaned slightly back in his chair. A purple towel suddenly flipped at his face, throwing salt into his eyes. He quickly grabbed the offending rag and rubbed his eyes. When he could see clearly enough, he traced the towel’s path back to its owner.

She was sitting two balconies away, looking rather annoyed. Her long brown hair was flying with the continuous gust. She waved at him when she saw where her property had landed.

"Hey! Can you throw that back over here when the wind dies down?" She adjusted her sunglasses.

"Cordelia?"

She took the shades off instantly and squinted towards him.

"Devon?"

"Yeah," he answered, confirming her recognition.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, shouting over the noises of seagulls, winds and waves.

"My parents—We have a beach house here. You too?"

He couldn’t see too well, but for just a moment, she looked back and downward at the house, and it seemed that she did it with deep sadness. It passed quickly, and she looked up at him in belated response to his inquiry.

"Huh?"

"I was asking if your parents had a house out here."

"Oh! Yeah."

"So I haven’t seen you around lately."

"Yeah?"

"How have you been?"

"Same old boring Sunnydale. You know."

But it wasn’t the same old Sunnydale—at least, it hadn’t been for her for the past year and a half. Being a musician might have put Devon on the fringes of high school social life, but he knew enough when someone was being ostracized. It showed up in where they sat at lunch, how fast they made their way through the halls, and in their faces.

Mostly, it showed up in their faces.

"Wanna come over? I’m pretty sure my dad’s gone out to find my mom by now. It should be safe."

She looked like the burden of the decision was weighing upon her heavily.

"I don’t know."

"Come on. I’m getting bored over here. I could use some company."

"Okay." He watched her crawl over the railing on their neighbor’s deck and cross over to his.

He gave her a lopsided smile as she took her place awkwardly standing in the middle of the porch.

It was odd. She was still as attractive as she’d always been—long legs, a face that was so beautiful that it was almost cruel, and that flowing hair that was just too perfect to be true. But there was something different about her: something almost…morose. And it made her so foreign to him, because he’d never seen her any other way but juiced or pissed off.

"Have a seat," he offered, and with little hesitation, she plopped down on the seat next to him, across a small white plastic table.

"So, you and your folks here to enjoy a little hang time?"

"Yeah. They thought it would be nice to spend a little quality ti— " She stopped and heaved a sigh and looked him right in the eye. Was it the first time she’d ever done that?

"No. They’re looking for buyers. Daddy’s no longer bringing in the big bucks, so something’s gotta go, right? I loved this house." She looked over at the balcony she’d arrived from and smiled wistfully, as if she was saying goodbye. Then she stopped herself yet again, and turned towards him. The grimace disappeared from her face and she replaced it with a blank expression.

"Your parents are still fighting?"

He nodded.

"Yup."

"Even after all this time. God, I remember when we were in fifth grade, and I came over to hang out with you and you were crying."

Absolut Vodka. He could still remember what the argument was about. "Maybe you are right—same old Sunnydale. But you’re getting out of here, right?"

"Yeah. I’m going to UCLA."

Wow. He’d gone out with her for how many years? And he’d never known that she’d had a brain in her head.

"That’s good," he answered, "but how are you going to—"

"Pay? I’ve got a full scholarship."

Got a brain, indeed. Damn. He’d really underestimated her for a long time.

"How about you?"

"College? I’m hanging in there at Sunnydale U."

"That’s good," she aped him, without a single note of bad intent.

He laughed into his chest.

"No it’s not. Maybe someday, the band will make it big. That’ll be my breakthrough, if it ever comes. For now, all I’ve got is this to deal with."

"I’m leaving tomorrow," she told him, and smiled that new sad smile of hers. He was getting used to it on her. "I have to get ready for school. It starts in a week."

"That’s early."

"I know. I’m not to upset about it, though. Not like I really have anyone to say goodbye to."

"I should have checked up on you," he said, thinking about the previous year and her bottoming out.

It was her turn to laugh. At first, he was offended, and then he realized the absurdity of the sentiment. Sure, they’d gone out, but what the hell did that mean? It was always small talk—it was rock star and groupie—it was beauty queen and rebel. Either she was at the edge of the stage, or he was at the back of the room, and between all the fuss about either of them, depending upon the time, they’d never managed to talk.

She stood up, still smiling, and looked down at him.

"I better get going. I have to get an early start tomorrow. Dad looked like he’d found somebody who was really interested."

Devon stood up, suddenly wishing she could stay for another three hours and they could make up for the past ten years. She was leaving, though, he knew, and it was rather late for that sort of thing. The sun had already sunk its way into the horizon, and dark was seeping into the sky.

"Good luck, Cordy," he said simply.

"You too."

He kissed her on the cheek.

He watched her crawl back across the decks, receding like the tide. Old parts of his life were beginning to pull back like that now, and as he watched the sand below, he felt as though he were rushing backwards into something he couldn’t control, or even understand.

He wondered briefly if he would ever see her again. Probably not. It was so easy to lose something on the beach—to come out of the ocean dripping and not recognize any of the umbrellas or people scattered along the vast plane like insects.

Then he thought of all the wonderful surprises he’d found as a child, combing the wet sand for treasure.

Nothing was quite so impossible.