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"McCormick... McCormick... McCormick," Kinsey whispers repeatedly, carefully turning the steering wheel right with her hands skillfully overlapping one another. The reflective forest green sign glints upon its exposure to the blinding afternoon sun. It sits atop the thick metal pole, perfectly exposing the white lettering that reads 'McCormick St' for all to see.
The firm expression on Kinsey's face reads one of determination. Her signature apathetic expression is nowhere to be found because pure emotion is splayed across her features like an open book. At this moment, there is pure agitation building up from within Kinsey Scott as she mentally flips through the rolodex of shit that this Zoé girl has done to Jade. Kinsey recalls, quite vividly, the many times in which the light in Jade's face would dim almost instantly whenever something about Zoé came up, somehow. The way her spirit deflated into nothing more than an empty vessel of trepidation. The way her Jade, whom she viewed as so utterly stunning and powerful, became so timid and fragile within a second's time.
Kinsey was quite familiar with the look, enough so that she could notice it in Jade. A look that read, "I've been hurt." Now, that is a look Kinsey was too familiar with.
Those moments gnawed at Kinsey's heartstrings the most. The moments where the blonde was stupidly convinced that she had Jade all to herself. Convinced that Jade was all there when she truly wasn't. Kinsey was reminded countless times that not only did Zoé still hold Jade's heart, but also her mind.
Kinsey's grip tightens on the steering wheel. The tension within her body is all too present as the top row of her teeth uncontrollably grind against the bottom row, her back straightening with unease running up her body, and her chin rising to observe every inch of her surroundings, the same way she would on the field. She is alert. Her attentiveness heightening as she takes in the unfamiliar setting before her.
She attempts to account for everything as her car cruises down the quiet, affluent street. Her eyes flicker from her rear-view mirror to her side-view mirrors promptly. She spots a highly intricate, and most likely expensive playground fenced off across the street with its array of different colored slides and various equipment. Snapping her eyes up the street, she sees a stray cat foraging in and out the forestry area that has yet to be ravaged to make room for more obnoxiously expensive houses. Then, looking over to her right, she spots an older woman taking her afternoon jog with her Bluetooth earphones crammed into her ears.
"327... 327... 327," Kinsey whispers again, repeatedly, as if saying it out loud will help her find it quicker. The whispers seem to be a source of calm for the varying emotions running through her at this moment. Her body can't agree on what to feel, so it's chosen a mashup of anxiety, slight fear, frustration, and confusion. The string of houses rolls by slowly as Kinsey maintains a steady speed of barely 20 miles per hour. Plaques with each unique house number hanging from the bottom of highly intricate mounted mailboxes. The mailboxes reside at the front of each house, but they mean nothing to Kinsey unless they carry the numbers 3, 2, and 7.
