Page 8 of The Wilder Widows

“To the Wilder Widows!” They mirrored, and our glasses clinked together.

CHAPTER THREE

“Holy cripes, I’m hammered,” Marge said, reclining on the sofa. The mostly empty glass dangled in her fingertips, threatening to tip out the last remains of the whiskey.

“I feel funny.” Doris teetered beside her, a hiccup punctuating the sentence.

Squinting one eye to see better, I looked to Alice who seemed the only one unaffected by the half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the coffee table. “I feel so relaxed.” I sighed. “It’s been ages since I’ve been this relaxed.”

“I told you girls whiskey was the answer. Now I’m into these Wilder Widows meetings.” Alice grinned.

“I vote we do this for every meeting.” Marge matched her smile.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been drunk before,” Doris said.

“Ever?” I asked, turning my squint toward her.

“No. I had wine on occasion and a few sips of beer once or twice, but I’ve never gotten drunk. My body is a temple, and I don’t think the temple should be drunk.”

“I think the best way to honor the temple is to bathe it in booze.” Alice waved a hand over her impressive figure. “Like an offering to the Gods.”

Snickering, I took another sip of my whiskey. “I’ve been drunk many times, but it’s been a while. I forgot how fun it is. This kind of reminds me of high school when my girlfriends and I snuck some of my dad’s brandy and got drunk and told each other secrets.”

“Oh! Secrets!” Alice lit up. “Let’s do that!”

“Do what?” Marge asked.

“Tell each other a secret.”

Doris shook her head. “I’m not sure about that. Secrets are secrets for a reason.”

Alice scoffed. “It will be like our Wilder Widows whiskey confessional. Like church, Doris. Just think of us as priests. Wouldn’t God want you to be honest?” She arched a brow, and Doris bit her lip while she processed. “I’ll even go first.”

“You will?” I asked while I tried to think of what secret I wanted to share.

Alice leaned forward, and we followed suit, excited to hear what she had to say.

“When I was younger, I was a showgirl in Las Vegas. And one night after a show, a big Hollywood celebrity invited me to his table. You probably know of him... Harry Hayes.”

Of course, I knew who Harry Hayes was. He was the heartthrob I dreamed about when I went to bed in my teens—me and every other teenage girl on the planet.

“Yes, yes. And then you slept with him,” Marge said and sat back. “This isn’t a secret. You tell this story to anyone who will listen.”

Narrowing her eyes, Alice scoffed and sat back. “Well, it’s a good story.”

“A secret, Alice. That’s the rule.” Marge challenged.

“I have no secrets. I’m an open book.” Alice crossed her arms. “You probably don’t either.”

Marge glared. “I’ve got secrets.”

With a scoff, Alice rolled her eyes. “Like what? You wore a skirt once?”

Marge took a breath and then slammed the rest of her whiskey. When she set the empty glass down, she took a deep breath and blew it out. “I think I’m a lesbian.”

“What?” Our three voices merged into one shout while we all whipped around to look at Marge.

“Yep. I think I’m a lesbian.”