Page 42 of Personal Escort

Cara: Went for coffee before my shower, and my favorite place is closed because of an unclean kitchen. And the elevator here is busted. This is a bad sign, right?

Toby: It’ll be fine.

Cara: What are you doing up so early? Did you know I’d need a pep talk?

Toby: Something like that.

I send him a heart emoticon before heading into the bathroom to get pretty before my next freak-out.

It comes as I slide my Metropass through the reader in the Bloor/Yonge station. The turnstile beeps and I push through, but I immediately regret it. In front of me are two teenagers giving me a what-the-crap-are-you-wearing-lady look, and behind me there’s a big crowd, shoving me forward.

I twist away from everyone, angling toward the wall. First I tuck my TTC card away, then I pull out my phone.

My fingers shake as I open an email window and begin to type in the name Alex. It auto-fills with his email address.

I huff out a breath and try to figure out what to say.Sorry, couldn’t get on the train. Best of luck with your next escort gig. I’ll pay you extra for the trouble of being stood up.

But I don’t have a signal. I move backwards, trying to find the faint connection that’s sometimes on the platform. Nothing.

With a squeal, the train pulls into the station and the doors open.

If I don’t get on, I’ll be late.

It doesn’t matter if you’re standing him up.

It matters, though.

I can go dump my fake fiancé in person. I push into the crowd getting onto the nearest subway car.

Two stops. Four minutes on the train, but it feels like a lifetime. I wanted to get here early, but it’s almost five to eleven when the subway slows and pulls into St. George Station. I’d been clutching my phone in my hand like a security blanket, even though I can’t call Toby from underground.

But now I stow it back in my clutch and take a deep breath.

The platform is busier than usual. There’s a tour group of German backpackers standing right in front of me, and I move around them, looking for a guy holding flowers.

Why didn’t I ask for a picture?

Maybe because that would make this real.

My pounding pulse says this is pretty damn real as it is.

I stop and take another deep breath.

Taking the breaths isn’t the problem. It’s letting them out that my body seems reluctant to do. Maybe hyperventilating will get me out of this whole thing.

Dear Nana, I meant to elope today with dear Alex, but I lost consciousness instead. Obviously am allergic to marriage. So sorry.

People keep looking at me.

I get it. I’m in a wedding dress and definitely too made up to be heading to the university. And I’m a freaking hot mess ten seconds away from a meltdown.

I turn around again, looking for—

Toby.

He’s leaning back against the wall. He’s wearing a black suit, white shirt, black tie. Slim-fit, all of it, making him look even taller than his usual six-foot-plus.

And there’s an orchid pinned to his lapel.

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