Speechless: REWRITTEN

9. Orchard

Gianna

Seeing as we have the whole night to kill, we cross the bridge to Bronx to visit Orchard Beach. I'm still a bit shaken from the karaoke experience, but having Roscoe take my hands and tell me that I was amazing honestly made up for the whole thing. I suddenly had the urge to explore what makes him, him. Is that normal, or am I just weird?

No one is on the beach, especially at this time of night and especially in late-November. It's too cold for a casual stroll and I'm too chicken to ask, seeing that that seems very date-esque. And this, unfortnetly, is not a date....at least I don't think it is. Nevertheless, he turns up the heat in his car and we sit and look over the glittering ocean against the reflection of the moon.

"So..." He tries to get something going, but my brain is at a standstill. It's like the gears are turning, but no product is being produced. I suddenly feel so pathetic and awkward. Do we even have anything in common?

"Do you believe in luck?" I throw out so randomly. I know I had to say something, anything, and for some reason, that stupid ass question was what came to mind. Why in the hell would he believe in luck?

"I think so," he answers. "I also think luck is just another word for a coincidence or a miracle. Just depends what your faith is."

"What about fate?"

"Yes," he answers immediately. "Maybe we don't just exist for shits and giggles. Maybe we all have a path we're going down. And we get to choose that path in the pursuit of happiness. And if you're not happy, then life seems pretty meaningless, doesn't it?"

"What about people with depression?" This, for some reason, makes me think of Cheyenne. I don't think she was depressed by any means, but she for sure had some sort of PTSD from her past. What caused it, I'm still not sure, and it's not my place to speculate.

"It's an illness like any other illness. But there's a difference between being clinically depressed and doing something that clearly makes you miserable. One's a choice and one isn't."

"And what about people who do bad things that make them happy? Serial killers love to kill people, it makes them happy. But it's against the law, so can they not be happy, too?"

"That's a 'sacrifice one man for the sake of a hundred' situation."

"And what about—"

"Okay, let me clarify," he straightens out. "I think a person should be able to go on a path that's fulfilling and rewarding without society being able to judge them. Obviously, being depressed or a serial killer isn't fulfilling or rewarding."

"Even if it's for good?" I turn to him fully. He lifts an eyebrow at me. "What if someone had kidnapped someone you loved and in order to get them back, you have to kill someone? That would be rewarding because they're rewarding you with your loved one."

"Are you thinking of being a serial killer? Is that what this conversation is?" He turns in his seat towards me. "Oh, shit, we're not here to bury a dead body, are we?"

"No," I laugh. "Just...some philosophical talk. I like knowing how people think. It drives me crazy when people are so cryptic about everything."

"It's better than having your heart on your sleeve for everyone to take shots at." I narrow my eyes at him, wondering where that came from.

"Have you ever been in love?" I ask gently.

The question clearly throws him off guard. He turns and looks out of the windshield at the beachfront, chewing on his bottom lip.