If That's All There Is

7. Potential

The delicate red silk of the ribbon fell out of its knot, Audra's fingers slipping from their hold on the present box. She placed the silver bracelet in the velvet lining and snapped it shut without another thought. His and her initials engraved in gold. Her wrist felt lighter, no links catching against her blouse anymore.

Audra stuffed the box in the bottom of her wardrobe, the last piece of her previous life dwindling in the dark. She grabbed the beat-up trainers from her teen years, the flat sole looking more inviting than the thin stilettos she owned.

Shouldering the small bag, she stared at herself in the mirror. The faint creases in her white button-down vanished into the waistband of her navy flares. She combed her fingers through her hair, still not used to the short choppy cut she'd done herself. Releasing a deep breath, she exited the comfort of her bedroom and made her way downstairs.

The smell of coffee drifted through the house, the hum of voices mixing in the kitchen. A large brown suitcase lay by the front door, a dark rain jacket hanging on its designated hook on the coat rack. Audra winced at the creak of the floorboard, her silent escape ruined.

"Morning, Audra. Did you sleep well?" Her father's head poked out the doorway, grey hair sparse on top. His hazel eye's searched hers for any response, gaze dropping to the cup of coffee in his hand.

She knew he meant well, but the bags under her eyes were telling enough that she didn't sleep much last night. "Morning Don, did you just get back?" Audra fiddled with the trainers in her hand, a red splotch of paint catching her attention.

Don stepped back as if burnt by his daughter calling him by his first name. "Yeah, not been in long." He followed her down the hallway and watched her gather her bag. "You not having breakfast before you go?" He angled his body to the kitchen, Drew's head appearing in the doorway. Her father's lips stretched into a smile. A genuine one Audra had not received in years.

Audra slipped her trainers on and adjusted her bag. "No, I have a meeting." The knot in her stomach tightened as she waited in the hallway, her father and brother's figures disappearing into the kitchen. She was used to Drew ignoring her in the mornings, only throwing a disgruntled acknowledgement if she got in his way.

Stepping out in the morning sun, she dove into her bag for her bus card. The orange ticket sticking out against the mustard yellow lining, a lone card of her agent crumpled up next to her coin purse. Tilting her head to the sun, she walked a short length to the bus stop and waited for it to arrive. Since she'd been back in town, it had done nothing but rain. The sun made it easier for her to travel, the thought of driving a car something she no longer wanted to do. Once on the bus, Audra put on her headphones and listened to music.

The town centre boasted of small boutiques, food stores and a couple of coffee shops. A row of abandoned shops lined the right side, windows plastered with closing signs. The council pumped money into the left side, with independent businesses taking up the commercial sites under a new campaign to invest in the community. The right was untouched, the budget no longer stretching to accommodate new business with little income.

Audra stood outside the smallest commercial space, a corner unit with large windows wrapping around the two exposed exteriors. It was the only building that didn't have a second floor, large skylights making the inside brighter on the angular roof. It was once a floristry, the painted green trimmings adding more charm to the dainty shop. Across the street was a small coffee shop she'd never seen before. She made a note to get a drink there later.

Standing in the door was Ren Arnolds, a forty-something woman who prided herself in working for the artist and not the buyer. She had the innate ability to understand an artist's vision and help them nurture it without forcing them to be something they're not. Ren had followed Audra's emerging career since the beginning, not that she'd tell her that.