Page 122 of Untouchable

His heart is sinking.

Even as he says it, he realizes he doesn’t believe it. He knows Harp well enough by now to predict what will come next. He won’t even see Harp next week—the office is closed for Thanksgiving—and he knows that the more time passes, the more this bramble between them will grow, twisting its thorns into all the soft and vulnerable places they’ve shown one another.

Harp won’t call him. Harp won’t reach out.

Parker will never figure out where exactly he went wrong, what he did to fuck things up so badly.

The knowledge weighs him down like lead, and he stands up, forcing a bland smile.

* * *

Harp is relievedthat Parker is going to grant him this reprieve, even if it's clear that he's not pleased.

Parker removes himself to the back room and Harp begins to pull layers on, to put his boots on.

Harp is on autopilot as he finishes the last of the welding, retrieving his apron from the ground where he left it. He barely thinks as he checks the stability of the weld before firing up the truck and pulling it around the house. Parker’s car is right where they left it, though it’s under plenty of snow now and the cone is barely visible.

Harp feels like a void as he hooks the car up and winches it out of the ditch.

Harp gets out to unhook the car. He stares at the back of Parker's car as it sits, inert.

He could tell Parker to stay.

He could have anything he wants from Parker—tonight, right now, any time—Parker has made that clear enough. Harp could hold back the truth and live one more day in paradise.

It would be so easy. He could tell Parker to stay.

Or he could stop holding back. He could give Parker a real understanding of who he’s dealing with and let the kid make up his own mind. Harp could tell Parker everything and see where they land.

* * *

At least I’m not crying, Parker thinks vaguely. His own clothes feel strange, stiff and unfamiliar, after spending the weekend in Harp’s baggy flannel and sweatpants. He’d been so, so deliriously happy just an hour ago, and now everything seems broken and mangled and he’s not even sure how or why.

Harp is nowhere to be found, and when Parker glances out the front window, he sees Harp standing in the road, Parker’s car pulled out of the snowbank and ready to be driven off. The only sound seems to be the harsh raking of Parker’s breath, the crunch of his shoes on the snow, the soft drip, drip of the icicles in the sun.

Parker’s heart aches. Harp is so generous, so thoughtful, so protective, even now. He has such a good heart, and Parker really does believe that Harp believes they’ll talk later. He’s sure Harp has every intention of it. But Parker still knows, in some hollow, rotten pit in his heart, that this is the end of them, of Harp and Parker in any context other than a professional one.

Harp doesn’t seem to notice as Parker approaches him.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, not looking up. “For—getting my car out. And letting me stay.”

"Thanks for staying," Harp says. His voice is neutral. "Do you want to take my cell number down? You could text me when you're off the mountain. So I know you're safe."

Parker lets Harp dictate his number to him. It hurts to save the number in his phone, hurts to know he’ll see the name in his contact list, hurts to know there’s hardly a point in keeping it once he’s down the mountain.

He barely says anything as he gets into the car, blasting the heater and turning on his music. It’s strange to be jolted back into his daily life. It feels like weeks since he’s been home.

* * *

Harp doesn't knowwhat to say. Everything. Nothing.

If he lets Parker go now, will he ever be back?

This is it. This isn't a conversation to be had on the phone, or in a coffee shop somewhere, or after a session.

This is a conversation to have today. He can't let Parker get off the mountain thinking that Harp is a saint—that he's even a good man to begin with.

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, Harp thinks, as he strides towards the car. It was fun while it lasted. It was heartbreakingly perfect.

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