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Just reading it brought back a deluge of unwanted feelings. The title was proof that these people liked the theory of me, the pretty picture my underprivileged upbringing created, without understanding the hardships or reasons behind it. As a teenager, the old—er, rich—families of this town gave me benevolent smiles and slapped me with a false label—their attempt to humor the outspoken girl with the dangerous ideals. I threatened their status quo, the one in which the rich get richer and the poor are punished for daring to be poor.

With a single email, Ivy Hayes had reminded me of all the reasons I’d left.

To them, my entrance into their advanced program at Sugar Springs High was a handout, and not because of my intelligence. I tried to help others to flaunt my superiority, not because it was the right thing to do. I worked toward social equality because I was greedy, not because I’d suffered true deprivation.

A fact I’d learned at an impressionable age: to live below the poverty line in one of the richest counties in Georgia was a cardinal sin to the wealthy. For years, I existed inside a barrage of insults via compliments—a specialty of the South—until I escaped to college.

I studied. I graduated. I worked.

I got lonely.

Despite it all, I’d missed my friends. My mama. I’d forgotten this feeling, this oppressive sensation of being judged and found lacking.

Not good enough.

In a blatant—and stupid—deviation from my obsessive need to plan everything, I had moved home without a single job prospect.

Then got appendicitis.

Lesson learned. Failing to plan is planning to fail.

My reply to Ivy Hayes needed to be well-planned, but I had no idea what that response should be—because my research into her and Henley Bourbon Co. resulted in an interesting find.

On the third screen—my phone—I unpaused the YouTube video I’d pulled up. A problematic marketing short Henley Bourbon Co. released a couple of weeks ago played once more. On the tiny screen, an expensively dressed man circled a plinth displaying a lowball glass of amber fluid. A deep voiceover spoke words like “mature” and “full-bodied” and “mouthwatering.” With each pass the man took before the camera, the glass on the plinth interchanged with a woman in a slinky black dress, posing seductively.

The words continued. Balanced. Smooth. Rich.

At the end, the woman held the glass for the man to take. “Here, honey.”

Script letters appeared over the couple. “Choose your whiskey like you’d choose your wife. Henley Bourbon. Quality where it counts.”

Yikes. I cringed for the fifth time as the video ended. This sort of advertising was antiquated and tasteless. What a bunch of idiots, cheapening a woman’s value to a spirit in a fancy glass. How could they have let this ad run? Did they not see the message they were sending?

Clearly not, since the video went viral in the worst way. A backlash in the form of TikTok videos of the women of Georgia circling hot dogs and comparing them to men—and then destroying said hot dogs—took over local social media.

Henley had certainly made a name for itself. Did she think the Sweetheart of Sugar Springs could fix this? That email was absolutely connected to this marketing disaster. A known local feminist with experience in marketing might do wonders for their image.

But how would she want me to do it? What sneaky ideas had burrowed into that blond head of hers?

Another sip of chamomile, and my gaze drifted to the budget spreadsheet. If she offered any type of paid opportunity, turning it down wasn’t an option. I wanted to stay local, close to Mama, and I needed the influx of cash more than my dignity.

Laughter grew in the street, and I leaned forward to watch. A few kids sported their Halloween costumes a little too early. A miniature Elsa leapt atop a much larger Hulk, yelling for him to “give me back my bunny, or I’m telling Mom!”

Chuckling, I pulled up the City of Sugar Springs website and clicked for the hundredth time on the employment opportunities tab. I’d submitted my application for a position in the community development department three weeks ago, but had yet to hear a thing. Unsurprising for a government position, really. Across this great country, red tape mazes always slowed progress to a crawl.

But to land a job that worked to expand economic opportunities for low-income households… Helping people…

It was a step in the right direction.

Plus, no other passable jobs existed in this town. Not for my goals, anyway. I could be a barista, a store clerk, or this.

In the application portal, the status of my CV was still Submitted. I groaned and flopped backward onto the wicker rocking chair. A tiny tug in the healing scar on my lower abdomen reminded me why I was in this situation in the first place.

What was even the point of an appendix? All it did was cause problems.

A slow, calming breath laced the scent of autumn through my bloodstream—that woodsy, rich fragrance of warm days and cool nights and falling leaves.

Ivy’s email plucked at my attention once more.