Dying Forever (Waking Forever Book 3) (2 page)

Alison felt like skipping, but managed to contain her enthusiasm as she walked toward the parking lot. It had been nearly three months since she had been on a date. Her older sister Julia had set her up with an office mate from her firm, and it had been an unmitigated disaster. Halfway through their dinner, the woman had mentioned she was still married, to a man, and wasn’t sure if “the whole lesbian thing” was her scene. Alison had politely exited the dinner and called her sister to give her an earful as she walked back to her car.

“
Odd. She’s never mentioned a husband, and when I said I had a
sister
she might be interested in dating, she was very eager.” Julia had immediately gone defensive. “Shit, I have to see her tomorrow at work. You weren’t rude, were you, Ali?”

Alison’s eyes nearly rolled into the back of her head with
exasperation. “Really, Jules? Really, truly - you’re worried about how
I
handled finding out I was someone’s curiosity when you should be kissing my ass?”

There had been a long pause. “You know I’m sorry. Now can we discuss the fallout on my end?”

Not for the first time, or most likely the last, Alison had hung up on her sister. Julia Abigail Bailey was a Chief Financial Officer for a local financial services company and sometimes forgot her sister wasn’t an employee.

That experience, along with her summer class
schedule, had curtailed Alison’s interest in dating. Now, unlocking her blue 2011 Honda Accord coupe, she half-expected to turn around and find Bryce had ducked out on her. Instead, the beautiful woman nearly walked into the back of Alison as she stopped next to her car.

“Sorry.” Bryce took a step back and pulled a set of keys from her jean
s pocket.

“
It’s fine. I’m here.” Alison nodded toward her car.

Bryce looked toward the far corner of the parking lot. “I’m over a
ways, but go ahead. I have a general idea where I’m going.”

Alison smiled. “
It’s pretty straight forward. Just head down Broadway toward downtown. It turns into Losoya Street, then you can take a right on Commerce.” She opened the car door, and a wave of heat escaped from the interior. “See you there.”

A
lison left the door open while she started the car. Looking over, she watched as Bryce walked toward a white, Toyota Corolla.
How is she wearing all those clothes?
Alison thought as she registered for the first time that the woman was wearing a long sleeve gray t-shirt, jeans, and a pair of brown leather Skechers.

Fairly confident
she wouldn’t suffocate, Alison turned the air conditioner up, closed the car door, and pulled out onto the main street. Glancing in her rear view mirror, she saw the white Toyota pull out of the parking lot and begin following her.

Halfway down Broadway, Alison timed a light cycle badly and left Bryce sitting while she drove on. Slowing down as much as she could without causing a traffic jam, Alison attempted to wait for the woman, but after several irritated honks from fellow motorist, she had no choice but to drive on.

Alison parked at a meter across from the Esquire, then looked up and down Commerce Street, hoping to spot Bryce. Deciding it was best, or at least less hot, to wait for her inside, Alison crossed the street and entered the dark, cool bar. 

Built in 1933
in celebration of Prohibition being repealed, the Esquire Tavern sat along the back edge of the San Antonio Riverwalk. The walnut floors were faded and scratched, accenting the scarred wooden booths and deep red, leather seat covers. The worn wooden bar ran nearly the length of the tavern and was backed by numerous shelves lined with every imaginable liquor bottle.

Alison took a seat at the bar, hanging her purse on a brass hook under the bar top. “What can I get you?” The young African-American man
who spoke was dressed in a stark white button-up shirt, black bow tie, and a pair of dark jeans.

“
Jameson neat, please.” Alison leaned back in the high back leather bar stool and looked toward the entrance of the bar. Glancing at her watch, she frowned.
I hope she isn’t lost.

The bartender placed an old fashioned style glass half full with Jameson in front of Alison. “Would you like to start a tab
, miss?”

Alison reached into her purse, pulled out her
brown leather J. Crew wallet, and handed her Visa to the man. “Yes, please.” She was hopeful Bryce and she would linger long enough to warrant a tab.

Thirty minutes and two drinks later, Alison closed out her tab. Bryce was nowhere to be found, and Alison’s dignity dictated she leave, though part of her remained hopeful it was a misunderstanding or the woman simply got lost.

Stepping out into the heat of the city, Alison looked back and forth along the bricked sidewalk and sighed heavily when there was no sign of Bryce. “Classic.” She muttered to herself as she crossed the street. Digging in her purse for her keys, she failed to see a car turning right onto Commerce Street and nearly had a heart attack as the irate driver honked repeatedly.

Approaching her car, Alison saw a
white slip of paper secured under her driver side windshield wiper. Alison thought for a minute it was a note from Bryce saying she was sorry, but something had come up last minute.

Turning the slip of paper over, her evening
immediately went from bad to worse. “Shit.” In her zeal to get into the bar and meet Bryce, Alison had forgotten to put money in the meter and now had a twenty-five dollar ticket to add insult to injury.

Driving back up
town toward her house near the San Antonio Medical Center, Alison resolved to not meet and greet any more strange and beautiful women in mummy exhibits, as clearly nothing good could come of it. She also was committed to never tell another soul about the humiliating endeavor. Her ego could only take so much.

Chapter 2

Alison’s two-inch black heels clicked smartly as she trotted up the concrete stairs towards her first lecture of the semester.  She was dressed conservatively in a black pencil skirt hitting just below the knee and a burgundy, short sleeve button-up shirt from Banana Republic.

University of the Incarnate Word was founded in 1881 by the Sisters of Charity of the Incarnate. Grounded in Judeo-Christian tradition, the university
was originally a women’s college and didn’t begin admitting men until 1970. Though Alison was an atheist, she didn’t mind the slightly religious slant the school still took with regards to overall academics and when considering new students for admission.

The university was relatively small, with less than ten thousand students in attendance. Its size, along with
the pseudo-Baroque style architecture, was more reminiscent of an east coast university than one located in South Texas.

The
relatively low student to professor ratio also provided Alison the opportunity to form more meaningful and long term relationships with her students. She was a mentor to three undergraduates and knew many of her students by name, something the larger universities in the state didn’t allow for.

The door to the lecture hall was open, and Alison glanced at her watch to see she had less than three minutes before her
Founding Myths - The Birth of a Nation
class started. The class was an introduction to American folklore, and though she hadn’t had a chance to review the complete participants’ list, she knew the class was full.

A low hum of voices emanated from the room as Alison walked through the door. Students walked back and forth, greeting each other, and finding
their seats. Putting her worn leather mailbag down next to the wooden podium, Alison did a quick scan of the room to see nearly all fifty desks were full.

“Good morning. I’m Professor Bailey
. If you would find a seat, we can begin shortly.” Turning toward the white, dry erase board that ran the entire length of the room’s back wall, Alison picked up a black marker and wrote in large, block letters
Founding Myths - The Birth of a Nation
, and then her name, office hours, and email address.

Putting the marker down on the thin metal tray that jutted out from the base of the white board, Alison turned to face the class. “This is the class you are in.” She pointed over her shoulder toward the board. “Founding
Myths, The Birth Of A Nation. If this is
not
the class you registered for, please exit via the door at the back of the room; otherwise - welcome.” She smiled warmly in an effort to reassure the mostly freshman attendees.

A three second pause, and two men getting up to leave later,
and Alison pulled the university-issued iPad from her bag. Over the past two years, the devices had become standard issue to both faculty and students. “Please bring up the syllabus for this class.” Several taps and screen swipes later, Alison laid the tablet on the narrow lecture podium, attached the overhead projector cable, and began to pace back and forth as she spoke.

“You should have the text book
Folklore and the Founding of America
. In addition, you should have the supplemental workbook.” She saw a young, blonde woman seated in the front row turn a bright red and begin to sort through her purple JanSport backpack nervously.

“If you do not have one or both of these texts, do not fear.” Alison made eye contact with the young woman and smiled. “You can purchase or download them from the university bookstore prior to our next meeting.” The girl’s shoulders
relaxed, and she put the backpack down on the floor next to her.

Alison went on to explain her expectations around
attendance, assignments, and the testing format and schedule for the semester. “With the housekeeping out of the way, let’s get started.” She walked to the white board and, taking the black marker in hand, wrote
folklore
in large block letters. “What does this mean?”

Turning to face the class, she was encouraged when several hands went up. Choosing a young man near the center of the room at random
, Alison pointed to him. “Yes?”

“Should I stand?” The boy was no older than seventeen, his face was flush
ed with a rather severe case of acne, and his voice cracked with nervousness as he spoke.

“Yes, please, so everyone can hear.” Alison encouraged.

The boy stood and shoved his hands into the front pockets of his faded jeans. “Folklore - traditional customs, beliefs, stories, sayings, or ideas that are not true, but that many people have heard or read.” The young man sat back down in his chair quickly.

Alison tried not to be too obvious with her smirk. It never failed
- every term at least one student channeled the Tracy Flick character from Tom Perrotta’s book
Election
. “Thank you for that clinical explanation of folklore, Mr. -”

“Foster - Brian Foster
, ma’am.” The boy answered.

“Mr. Foster, thank you.” Alison never discouraged participation
, especially on the first day, but she was hoping for a more esoteric definition.

“Anyone else?” She scanned the room and saw a long, thin arm jutting up from the back row. “In the back, sorry I can’t see your face.”

A moment later, Bryce stood up, and Alison felt a wave of prickling heat shoot up her neck and across her forehead. Putting her hand on the podium to her right, she took a deep breath, hoping desperately that her discomfort wasn’t obvious to the entire class. “Yes, Ms. - Ms.?”

“Whelan. Bryce Whelan.”

Alison was relieved she didn’t follow her name with ma’am. She felt humiliated enough about what had happened without being called ma’am by a woman she had hit on a few days ago. “Ms. Whelan – how would you define the word folklore?” She forced herself to make eye contact with the woman.

“I just wanted to add to Mr. Foster’s definition
by saying folklore can be legends, music, oral history, proverbs, even fairy tales. It’s a way of sharing beliefs and fears and hopes across generations.” Bryce sat back down, her face now obscured behind three rows of her classmates.

Alison swallowed, her mouth dry. Of course Bryce would say something perfect
. Of course the woman who had left her sitting alone in a bar would absolutely get it. “Thank you, Ms. Whelan. That was an effective elaboration.”
Effective elaboration? Jesus, Ali, you’re brilliant.
“Anyone care to add to Mr. Foster's or Ms. Whelan’s comments?”

Seeing no other hands raised, Alison
finally launched into her lecture, hoping the beads of sweat weren’t too obvious.

Chapter
3

Alison wanted to bolt from the classroom immediately upon completion of the lecture. Unfortunately, several students approached her about the initial assignment to create their own tall tale relevant to the founding of America. Looking over the shoulder of the young Asian girl who wanted to know if she could include Asian Americans in her story, Alison saw Bryce waiting patiently near the door.

“There’s really no limits to what you can include. Use your imagination.” Alison repeated this mantra for the second time. This particular student clearly struggled with ambiguity.