Goodbye to You Read Online Free PDF Page A

through the same shit I went through with Mama.
    And I do mean shit. Mama’s side effects to the treatment went beyond nausea and vomiting and hair loss.
    I shake off the negativity and stand by the choices I’ve made. I’m confident about the PBM, no matter what other people might say. A movie star in her thirties had the same procedure a few months ago, and while most applauded her decision, Twitter exploded with idiotic comments.
    I called to check in this morning, the same as every day since I came on vacation. Jen kept down dry toast, a monumental accomplishment.
    Like me, she loves to eat—especially traditional Southern cooking—but the chemo messed with her appetite.
    When she’s stronger, we’re headed to Mama Hattie’s restaurant for shrimp and grits.
    We reach the corner of Whitehead and Olivia. A six-foot red brick wall surrounds Hemingway Home, and like other gardens throughout Old Town, the scent of exotic tropical plants infuses the air.
    I’m giddy. I minored in English and loved my Modern American Lit class. We read stellar books, but I love A Farewell to Arms . Hemingway, who went by the nickname Papa, was a complex man, not likable much of the time, but a fascinating character and a hell of a writer.
    And I want to play with the cats.
    My childhood cat Candy had extra toes. The vet labeled Candy “polydactyl,” but my aunt called her a “Hemingway,” which I later found out was because Hemingway once owned a polydactyl. I read dozens of cats inhabit the property, some descended from Hemingway’s original cat, and sailors prized polydactyls for their ability to catch rodents.
    I pull out my wallet to buy a ticket. Shay shakes his head. “My treat. Two, please.”
    He pays and thanks the cashier.
    “Next tour starts in ten minutes if you want to wait in the living room,” she informs us.
    I beam at Shay, excitement bubbling in my chest. “Thank you!”
    We turn to the house, a rectangular building with a porch wrapping around the entire second level. The roof is flat and tall; arched windows highlighted by mustard shutters help create a striking piece of architecture.
    We enter the house, and it’s as hot as outside. No AC in here, so I fan myself and tug at my shirt where it’s sticking to my back. I open my bag and pull out a tissue, dabbing at my forehead and upper lip, happy I’d skipped the make-up. Shay hasn’t broken a sweat at all.
    I want to hate him for looking cool and gorgeous, but the way he touches me, whispering and pointing out things, makes me feel something different from hate.
    Desire. Churning in my stomach, swirling out to tickle my fingers and toes.
    For someone who was shy last night, he’s relaxed today. I’d like to think I put him at ease because I’m comfortable with him.
    The tour guide, Dan, comes in and directs our attention to paintings on the wall, then he describes the architectural history of the house.
    We move from the living room to the dining area. Shay’s hand burns into my shoulder. I could use some ice or something to cool me down.
    Pictures of Hemingway and his women line the walls of the dining room, solidifying Hemingway’s reputation as the King of Machismo, a womanizer with an abundance of nasty habits.
    The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I glance at Shay as he grins at me. He points to a picture of Hemingway with a giant marlin. “Ever been fishing?”
    I shrug. “Yeah, but I never caught anything bigger than a foot long.”
    “Smaller than the marlin.” We both laugh, and it’s so normal, like we’ve known each other forever instead of twelve hours.
    He rests his chin on top of my head. I’m like one of those cartoon characters who gets hit in the head and sees birds and stars circling above.
    After my first boyfriend had broken my heart in middle school, calling me hideous when I got my first zit, Mama tried to comfort me. She asked in all sincerity if I saw stars when we were together. I didn’t, and Mama said