Free Devoured by Emily Snow Page A

mirror, giving me an angry, questioning look after I change the subject yet again to the Tennessee Titans because he knows I’m not a football fan. “Stop it,” I mouth at him. Today is going to be hard enough for Gram as it is, so I don’t want him adding any more stress by bringing up Mom. 
    But sooner or later, before I return to California, I’ll speak to her about it.
    Alone.
    The owner, a woman named Tiffany Bernard, who meets us at the first house has a megawatt smile that’s locked into a wrinkle and emotion-free face. She extends her French-manicured hand to Gram the moment we exit the truck.
    Mrs. Bernard gets five minutes into her pitch—and it’s a good one because the house is amazing with hardwood floors, a great neighborhood, and is only one story—and then she asks about rental and ownership history.
    Ashamed, Gram looks down at a dark spot of tile. “My home was recently foreclosed,” she says in a shaky voice.
    Mrs. Bernard’s smile doesn’t change, but I can tell that the pleasant atmosphere has shifted. She speeds through the rest of the showing, giving us barely enough time to look at each room. At the end of the tour, I thank her and ask for a copy of the rental agreement. Despite the owner’s frosty attitude, Gram really seems to like the house and if I have to, I can place the rental contract under my name. The only thing I’ve ever bought using credit was a used ’04 Mercury sedan that I paid off late last year.
    Mrs. Bernard gives me her creepy Botox smile. “It’s available on our website, dear,” she says sweetly and I realize that it doesn’t matter if we put the rental contract under the governor’s name—this woman wants nothing to do with us.
    Gram thanks her and says we’ll be in touch. On the way to the truck, I lag behind to walk with Seth, hissing, “Did you find that house on a website?”
    “Craigslist,” he says in a gravelly house.
    The next two rental properties are just as disastrous. One realtor completely overlooks Gram, reaching past her to shake my hand instead and finally looking at her like a nuisance when I point out that I’m not the one looking for a place to live. The final property is an overpriced townhouse that smells so strongly like animal urine, Seth steps in and right back out, shaking his head. 
    My brother and I pool our resources—well, I offer some money and I guess he donates some of my cash, too, considering he owes me—and take Gram to lunch at a fancy restaurant in Franklin,  one of the suburbs a half an hour outside of the city. Gram points out that the last time she came here was before our grandfather passed away two years ago, but she doesn’t so much as smile. Throughout the entire meal, there’s a heavy silence that bears down on all of us.
    “John built that house for me as a gift for having”—she swallows, as if it hurts her to say the name that follows—“Rebecca. We had offers from country music stars and celebrities for that house because it was truly his best work, but it was our home. Our life.”
    “Gram . . .”
    She forces a bright smile and nibbles on an oversized roll. “Now that he’s gone, she’s gone, I’m not sure at all if it even matters anymore.”
    But it does. It always will. And I feel miserable that she has to go through this. I feel like I should be doing everything I can to prevent her from having to suffer, just like she’s done so much to protect me.
    Upon our return to the cabin and after Seth leaves, Gram claims exhaustion again. My eyes follow her as she disappears upstairs and the door to her bedroom creaks closed. Almost as clear as day, I hear Kylie’s comment to me from yesterday evening echoing in my head.
    The deal . . . it has to be worth all this.
    Before I can chicken out and change my mind, I fish the sheet of paper Lucas gave me from the bottom of my bag and walk outside. Pacing the driveway, I make the call. 
    I listen to his pretentious ringback tone—one of Your