Page 49 of Born to be Wilder

“And what are you?”

“The Wilder Widows,” Marge answered with pride.

He raised an eyebrow. “That what you call yourselves?”

“We started as a widows’ group. Mostly knitting,” Sylvie explained. “And then we got drunk one night, wrote down a wish of something we’d missed out on in life, and helped each other achieve it. Now we do it every year. We’ve been to Las Vegas, Paris, Spain, Africa, Australia⁠—”

“Diving with great whites,” Marge jumped in. “Skydiving. Dogsledding. Ziplining. Whitewater rafting⁠—”

“Yes, tell him how that went, Marge.” Alice inched up an eyebrow.

“What happened?” Rip leaned in.

“Well, she picked a trip too difficult because she doesn’t actually speak Spanish. We got capsized and were stranded in the jungle. She lost our passports, so we hired a coyote to sneak us back into the States to make it back for Sylvie’s wedding, got caught by border patrol, were locked up, and then⁠—”

Marge snickered. “We had to piss in⁠—”

Alice cupped a hand over Marge’s mouth. “We don’t talk about that, Marge.”

Marge nodded beneath her hand, and when Alice released it, she just snickered. “So, now we’re on a road trip, driving to Mardi Gras, so Alice can show the world her tatas one last time. And tonight, we’re here getting tattoos with you.”

Rip just stared at us, then burst into laughter. “Okay, I want to be a Wilder Widow because this sounds amazing! You ladies have more fun than me and my friends and I’m only twenty-nine!”

“We try.” Sylvie shrugged.

He then looked at us, tipped his head, and said, “Give me a sec.”

He pulled a sketchpad from under the counter. We waited. I watched his hand move across the paper, quick and certain, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Two minutes later, maybe three, he flipped the sketchpad around.

I squealed before I could stop myself.

Two Ws, interlocked slightly, but the outer peaks of each W formed Viking horns—unmistakable, bold, with just enough whimsy to be fun. And crossing through the center, two knitting needles arranged like a coat of arms.

A shield. A sigil.

Ours.

“THAT!” I pressed both hands to my cheeks. “That is exactly it. That is us.”

“Oh, that’s actually good,” Sylvie said softly. “Maybe… maybe I could endure a needle for that.”

Marge was already nodding with enough enthusiasm to end up with whiplash. “Do it. Right on my forehead.”

“You are not getting it on your forehead,” Alice said.

Marge stomped her foot. “Aw, come on. How cool would that look? And if I⁠—”

“Don’t say pair it with a shark tooth.” Alice sighed.

Marge shrugged. “I bet Rip will think it’s cool.”

He grinned. “Okay, when I’m doing these tattoos, I need you to tell me everything.”

“Deal.” Marge grinned back.

“So, who is first and where are we putting it?” he asked, looking between us.