Georgia was controversial. Always. No matter where she went and no matter what she did—no matter how good she was trying to be (and god, she was really trying. She really wanted things to be different this time, for both her and her children, but it seemed to be absolutely impossible), controversies stuck to her like bees to nectar. It was laughable, almost, how one woman could wreak such havoc in so many different places.

She’d just moved to Wellsbury, Massachusetts hardly two months ago and she’s already the talk of the town, because she’s romantically involved with a person ten years younger than her. A town like Wellsbury and her quickly-rising occupation as a congresswoman alongside Paul Randolph, people were bound to talk.

People had expressed their discomfort with the relationship multiple times on multiple occasions, but Georgia hardly paid them any mind. She couldn’t care less about them. She was happy. For once, she was happy and healthy and that’s all that mattered to her.

Because the thing about Georgia? People’s opinions hardly meant anything to her, especially not the likes of Cynthia and the snotty neighborhood club.

“Hey, darlin’,” Georgia drawled as she slid into the booth in front of you, placing her brand new purse on the table. Her gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than usual. She knew that look—that expression of embarrassment and sadness. “Why the long face, huh?” She questioned, furrowing her eyebrows in concern.

Georgia had a feeling. She knew you’d heard the whispers—about you two. About your relationship. She also knew that you weren’t as indifferent to people talking about you as she was. You’re young, you still think people’s opinions matter. She understood how you felt. She really did.