Page 24 of The Bonventi War
I wish I had a Danny in my life.
"At least you made it," I say, adjusting my pace as she scrambles to get her treadmill up to speed.
We fall into one of those comfortable silences, and I just stare at one of those motivational images on the wall, mind blank, total zen mode.
"Three miles down," Morgan pants after a while. "How do you make this look so easy?"
I manage a small smile, keeping my steady pace. "Years of running from my problems, I guess."
"Yeah, I get that. Aren't we all?" Morgan laughs. "But really, I notice you're like in way better shape than me."
I shrug. "Maybe my time living abroad. You walk everywhere."
"In Florence?" Morgan glances over. "You never really talk about your time there."
"Not much to tell. I learned to restore art, drank wine, lived the Italian dream."
Morgan snorts. "Oh right, no big deal."
"No, I mean, it was lovely, obviously. That city is magical."
Morgan nods. "And now, you're back in Chicago running your dad's gallery."
I glance at her and say, "My mom's gallery actually."
"Oh?" Morgan's voice softens. "I always thought—I mean, I'd only been working at the gallery a few months before you came, and your dad's name is on everything. So..."
My fingers find the small raven tattoo on my wrist. "Yeah, well, that's my dad for you. Taking credit for other people's dreams."
"Was it really her dream?" Morgan asks, genuine curiosity in her voice.
I adjust my speed, surprised by my willingness to answer. "She was a wonderful artist. And when she opened the gallery, she'd bring me there and tell me stories about each painting, about the artists who made them." I smile at the memory. "I was little, but even then, she made sure to teach me that art isn't just about beauty—it's about preservation."
"Is that why you got into restoration?"
"Partly." I wipe some sweat from my forehead. "After she died, I started seeing broken things differently. Like maybe if I could fix art, I could fix..." I trail off.
"Other things?" Morgan prompts gently.
"My family, maybe? I don't know." I laugh because I'm starting to get nervous at my openness. "Stupid, right?"
"Not stupid," Morgan says. "If you don't mind me asking, did you speak with your brother or dad much?"
I'm quiet for a moment, just the sound of our feet hitting the treadmills. "Johnny called me on my last birthday. Drunk, singing off-key. I tried calling back, but..." I swallow hard. "That was the last time I heard from him."
"Oh, Raven." Morgan's voice is soft.
"You know what's crazy? The last real conversation I had with my dad was almost twelve months ago, on the anniversary of my mom's death. And even then, he barely said two words to me." I slow my pace. "Some family, right?"
"Is that why you stayed away so long?"
"Easier to pretend everything's fine when you're an ocean away." I hit the cool-down button. "Florence was safe. Predictable. I knew who I was there."
"And here?"
"Here?" I shake my head. "Here, I'm just the lost daughter trying to piece together a legacy I'm not even sure I understand anymore."
Morgan slows her treadmill. "You know, sometimes talking about it helps. We could do this more often. Running and, you know, actually talking? Or maybe coffee too—I guess we don't always have to run."
