The black-tie opening at The West End Gallery for Markus Finstin was something I'd looked forward to since Sera had mentioned it in New York. I'd never seen his work, but Tara was impressed by it, and Sera went to grad school with him and said he was a genius. I was an addict of all art: visual, performing, vocal; I appreciated the effort that went into all of it. The promise of dinner and an opening with Sera didn't make me sad, either. I hadn't seen her since we'd gotten back, and I'd had little to no contact outside of her text this morning to confirm our plans tonight.
Every opportunity I had to spend time with Sera brought me peace, even though she struggled with her own demons. The slices of life she spent with me reassured me that she was safe. She kept so much of herself a secre
