Over You Read Online Free PDF

to that scruff Bridget thought was sexy. Time for other chicks who find a shaved guy hot, ’cause he can meet them now. Razor, please! Don’t mind if I do .
    Then he’s all fresh and clean. A clean slate, he thinks, as he pulls on his oxford and loops his school tie around his collar. He’d had a thing for Bridget since her family moved in across the street in kindergarten. She was always so cute with her blond curls, always cracking herself up. And then—when they finally got together—man. But it’s his senior year . He can’t go to college committed to the same girl he’s always liked! What if they got married? He’d have been with one girl his whole life . When Carrie hit on him homecoming weekend, he totally clammed up. It was like he was already married. And that’s when he knew what he had to do.
    This summer he and Bridget hung out so much his friends started calling them by one name, “Baylor.” He sends out a mass text with a triumphant grin on the way downstairs. “Baylor RIP.” He hops the last two steps and slip-slides into the kitchen, where his mother is flipping through the paper at the counter. She tucks her blouse into her skirt with one hand.
    “Morning, Tay.” She takes a long sip of coffee without looking up, like it’s any other day and not the first of the rest of his life.
    “You want toast?” his dad asks from where he rummages in the fridge, holding his tie to his chest. “Anyone? Going once …”
    “I don’t know, Dad,” Taylor announces as he slaps both hands down, billowing the Journal . “I don’t know because every morning, Bridge brought me a Pop-Tart. Strawberry with sprinkles, and the thing is—I was so sick of it. Day in, day out. Strawberry and sprinkles, strawberry and sprinkles, strawberry and sprinkles. I stopped thinking about what I wanted for breakfast. I stopped thinking about what I want . I may want toast. I may want an egg. I may want lasagna! It’s time I figure that out, figure me out. I get to meet myself for the first time in—”
    “Four months?” Taylor’s eight-year-old sister, Daisy, asks through a mouthful of Honey Nut Cheerios.
    “And a week,” Taylor corrects her.
    “So, no to toast?” His dad tucks the bag tag in his teeth as he withdraws a slice of bread.
    His mother shakes her head in dismay. “Does Mrs. Stetson know about this?”
    Taylor’s phone buzzes, and he looks down to see his best friend’s response. Finally, something worthy of the occasion! “Dude. You have been sorely missed.”
    Outfitted in a pair of riding pants and a cozy cashmere sweater from her Etsy knitting hookup, which allows her to radiate the comfort necessary on Day One, Max slips inside Bridget’s bedroom. Having received Bridget’s dazed call at dawn, Max has already breezed past Mrs. Stetson with a handoff of a dozen homemade cranberry muffins and a mention of “last-minute flash-card drills.” After a quick appraisal of Bridget, Max reaches into her red bag, pulls out a stainless-steel thermos, and sets it on the nightstand. She glances out at the windows across the street. Taylor’s are dark, and light is filtering through the shutters on the first floor. Which means either he’s already downstairs or Max has beaten his alarm clock and can preemptively close Bridget’s curtains before her client awakens and does anything she’ll regret. Max flicks on the bedside lamp.
    “Morning, Bridget.”
    “All those nights we’d talk for hours, watching and waving through our windows. Teasing him with flashes of my new bra,” Bridget murmurs into her pillow as if they were mid-conversation. “Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe he meant something else. It just doesn’t make sense that he could go from remembering that I loved peanut-butter ice cream on Tuesday to needing to take a break on Wednesday....” As Bridget’s eyes focus on Max, Max lifts Bridget’s head as if she were a wounded soldier and puts the thermos lid of espresso to her lips, but