Love On Loan

Chapter 1

Monica

I toss my apron into the laundry bin and wave at my coworkers. "See you guys tomorrow."

"Don't work too hard, Monica," Greg calls out from the kitchen, flashing a greasy smile.

"Yeah, yeah. You know me," I say, pushing the door open and stepping into the city’s night air. The cool breeze feels like a tiny victory after hours of serving endless plates of pasta and refilling bottomless drinks. I let out a sigh of relief, taking in the streetlights and the faint hum of traffic.

Long hours at the restaurant are only part of my hustle. Between waitressing and retail shifts, I’m constantly on my feet, juggling schedules that barely leave room to breathe. But whenever I can carve out a few minutes, I dive headfirst into my art.

My mind drifts to the sketchpad in my bag. It's filled with half-finished drawings, ideas that refuse to be fully formed until I have a stretch of uninterrupted time to bring them to life. I live for those moments when I can lose myself in lines and colors, even if they come far too rarely.

Sometimes, luck smiles on me and I snag a freelance gig—like designing a logo for a small business or painting a mural for a local café. These gigs are lifelines, not just financially but creatively. They remind me that there’s a place for my art in the world outside my cluttered home.

Then there are the local art shows. Setting up my pieces alongside other hopeful artists gives me a rush every time. Watching people stop to admire my work, some even deciding to take one home—those are the moments that keep me going. Last month, an older couple bought one of my landscapes, saying it reminded them of their honeymoon in Italy. Their words had stuck with me all week.

I walk briskly through familiar streets toward our small home. The neighborhood’s quiet now, save for the distant laughter from an open window and the occasional bark of a dog. It’s comforting in its own way—predictable and steady.

The front porch light flickers as I approach, casting long shadows across the worn steps. Pushing open the creaky door, I'm greeted by silence and the faint scent of lavender from Mom’s diffuser. This place may be modest, but it’s ours.

"Mom, I’m home," I call out, my voice echoing through the quiet house. The only response is the soft hum of the refrigerator. I pause, listening for any sign of movement, but all I hear is the steady rhythm of her breathing from the next room. I step closer, lowering my voice. "Did you already eat?" The question lingers in the stillness, unanswered.

I tiptoe quietly through the dim hallway, glancing into my mom's room. She's fast asleep, her frail body barely making a dent in the mattress. The soft glow of the nightlight casts gentle shadows on her peaceful face. I linger for a moment, listening to her steady breathing, feeling a rush of gratitude that she's resting comfortably tonight.

Moving on, I head towards my bedroom—my sanctuary. The second I push open the door, I'm greeted by the familiar scent of paint and paper. Canvases line the walls, each telling its own story. Some are vibrant with life; others are muted, still searching for their voice.

"Finally," I whisper, running my fingers lightly over the edges of each canvas. The familiar strokes and hues bring a sense of calm. "Hello, my lovelies," I murmur, a smile playing on my lips as I take in the work I've poured my heart into.

My eyes land on the canvas sitting on the easel in the center of the room. It's a work in progress—a sprawling cityscape with intricate details that I've been obsessing over for weeks. I can see it in my mind’s eye, every line and shadow perfectly placed. But translating that vision onto the canvas is a different beast altogether.

I drop my bag on the floor and make my way to the easel, fingers itching to pick up a brush. The chaos of my day jobs melts away when I'm here, surrounded by my creations. This is where I feel most alive, most myself.

Dreaming of being an artist full-time isn’t just some fleeting fantasy for me—it’s everything. I want to spend my days lost in color and form, not buried under piles of receipts or serving tables. But dreams don’t pay bills or cover the mortgage.

The inconsistent income from my art makes it difficult to cover even basic expenses. One month I might sell a couple of pieces and feel like I'm on top of the world; the next month, nothing. It's a rollercoaster ride with more downs than ups.

So I keep grinding at my day jobs—waitressing at Mario’s and folding clothes at Bennett’s Boutique—hoping that one day I'll make it as an artist. Each shift feels like another brick in the wall between me and my dream, but I push through it because what other choice do I have?

I sit down on the small stool by my easel and pick up a brush. As soon as it touches the canvas, everything else fades away. This is where hope lives—in these strokes and colors, in this small room where dreams take shape against all odds.

I dip my brush into a swirl of cobalt blue, feeling the familiar rush of excitement as the color spreads across the canvas. But then, the paint seems to lose its magic. 

"I need a different texture, something more rugged," I mutter, my gaze darting over the cluttered desk, scanning for the paint spatula I know is buried somewhere. Brushes, tubes of paint, and crumpled sketches litter the surface. "Now, where did I put it?"

Standing up, I rummage through a drawer, shoving aside tubes of paint and old sketches. My fingers brush against an opened envelope. My heart skips a beat as I pull it out. It’s the foreclosure warning—the one I’ve been pretending didn’t exist.

My stomach tightens. I knew it was bad, but seeing those words again feels like a punch to the gut. Our financial troubles aren’t just some abstract concept; they’re very real and closing in fast.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when Mom and I didn’t have to worry about money, when our lives were filled with laughter and art shows, not doctor visits and overdue bills.

I remember the day everything changed. Mom had been feeling off for weeks, but she brushed it aside, calling it stress or fatigue. When we finally went to the doctor, we got hit with a diagnosis that shattered our world—chronic illness requiring regular medical care.

The cost of her medications and treatments quickly became overwhelming. Every time I turned around, there was another bill to pay, another expense to cover. We tried to manage it all—her health, our home—but it felt like drowning in quicksand.

"No. I can’t lose everything—not now, not when I’m so close," I exclaim, shoving the envelope back into the drawer and slamming it shut, as if that could somehow make it disappear. The weight of reality presses down on me. Every penny I make goes toward keeping us afloat, ensuring Mom gets the care she needs. I sacrifice my own needs without a second thought because she’s my world.

I sit back on my stool, the weight of that damned envelope pressing down on me. The cobalt blue on the canvas stares back, mocking me with its vibrancy while my life feels like it's painted in shades of gray.

The medical bills keep piling up. Every month, a new statement arrives, demanding money we don't have. It's like we're bleeding cash with no way to stop it. And now, with the foreclosure threat hanging over our heads, it feels like we're one step away from losing everything.

I drop the brush and press my palms against my eyes, trying to push back the tears. "Crying won’t solve anything," I tell myself, but the words feel hollow. The weight of it all feels unbearable. The pressure to be strong for Mom, to keep a roof over our heads—it’s suffocating.

"How did we end up here?" I whisper, a silent prayer pleading for answers. I think back to when I first started painting—how every stroke felt like a promise of something beautiful, something meaningful. Now it feels like I'm painting over cracks in a crumbling foundation.

I glance at my hands, stained with paint, a testament to my struggle to pull us out of this pit. The colors smeared across my fingers feel like a second skin, a constant reminder of the work that consumes me. Each brushstroke, each drop of paint is a step closer to something better. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

"This exhibit—it has to be the one," I say, the words echoing in my mind like a mantra. "This is my big break. It has to be. I can't afford for it to be anything less."

I dive back into my work, determination tightening in my chest. The cityscape on the canvas needs more life, more soul. My brush moves swiftly, filling in the gaps with vibrant hues and intricate details. I pour everything into it—the frustration, the hope, the desperation.

The lines and colors start to merge into something beautiful, something that speaks louder than words ever could. Each stroke is a silent plea for change, for an end to the constant struggle.

I lose myself in the process, hours slipping by unnoticed as I layer on shades of twilight and hints of dawn. The cityscape comes alive under my hands, transforming from a collection of lines and shapes into a living, breathing entity.

This piece—it’s different. "Maybe this is it. Maybe this is what will save us," I say, feeling like all my dreams and fears have been woven into the fabric of the canvas, creating something raw and real. Something that might finally catch someone’s eye and make them see me for what I am—an artist worth investing in.

My phone buzzes on the desk, but I ignore it. Nothing else matters right now but this moment, this creation. 

“If I can just get it right, maybe—just maybe—we’ll have a shot at turning things around,” I murmur, laying down another stroke with my brush.

The light outside shifts from deep blue to the first hints of morning gray by the time I step back from the easel, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. The painting isn’t finished yet—not by a long shot—but it’s closer. Closer to what I need it to be.

Closer to saving us.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and drop onto my bed, eyes heavy but heart lighter than it’s been in days. Today will bring more challenges, more bills and worries—but right now? Right now I’ve created something beautiful amidst the chaos.

And that’s enough for me.