Page 137 of Untouchable

Parker sniffles again and it makes Harp crazy—not to be able to be there, not to have the ability to wrap his arms around Parker. But miraculously, when Parker begins speaking again, Harp can tell that he is smiling, against all odds.

“Thank you,” Parker says. “It’s… it’s kind of silly because when you say that I instantly think, oh, that’s not right, oh, he doesn’t really know, but also, you’re Harp, you know? And you’re like, super smart and wise and know everything anyway. So then I think, hm, well, what if Harp is right? But that’s too scary to think about. Which is weird, I guess, but it’s like my brain goes blank when I try to consider it. But you make me feel like… maybe—maybe someday I actually… could kind of believe it? Maybe?”

He swallows hard and Harp doesn’t rush to fill in the pause. Harp knows enough about Parker to sense that sometimes he just needs the same reassurance as always, just needs to be heard. He doesn’t have to reinvent the wheel when it comes to talking to Parker about these things, and there’s comfort to be had in seeing how navigable, how predictable their relationship could be.

“You remember the other day,” Parker begins again, his voice sounding even stronger, “when—when we talked on the phone and… and you told me to imagine you with me at Thanksgiving dinner with my family? Well, the entire time I was down there, I was imagining it. And I was thinking how much better it would be, because you’d have the courage to say all the shit I wanna say to my relatives but never can. You wouldn’t let them… be shitty to me. You’d protect me.”

"You're damned right I would," Harp says ferociously. "You say the word and I'll start the drive to Denver. It sounds like your whole family could use someone to cut through their bullshit and you know I'm not afraid to be the asshole," Harp says with a smile. “I could be there before dessert if I leave now.”

Parker sounds a little more cheerful, and Harp can't even begin to process what he's just said. He's filing it away, tucking it somewhere for safekeeping, for a time when he can unpack it alone, when Parker doesn't need him to be the bravest, most generous, best version of himself.

* * *

Parker’s heartfeels so full he can barely speak.

“You’d—you’d really do that?”

"I mean, if you're ready for the most awkward Thanksgiving in the James household history, I'm game if you are. What's the address—I'll put it in my GPS."

Parker manages a laugh.

“I’m not sure it’s quite that bad,” he says. “But, I mean… if you wanted to maybe sweep in here and carry me out across the threshold like I was a damsel in distress, I’d be okay with that.”

He inhales, his voice still a little shaky. He still feels flayed from being with his family, raw and vulnerable, and it makes him want to be brutally honest about his feelings, come what may.

“Look, I know you wanted me to take time to… think about stuff,” he says. “But—I was being serious before, this whole day has just made me want to be with you even more. And I know you keep thinking you’re going to somehow find a way to convince me that I don’t want you, but… well, good luck, dude, because it’s not happening. I know you think I should think the stuff with… with your ex-wife is a dealbreaker, but… I just don’t, okay? And yeah, maybe my family wouldn’t be happy if I brought you home with me. But I realized today that they’re never going to be happy with me, so… it doesn’t even matter. I mean, I could be an astronaut or something and they’d still be like, Oh, that Parker, too dumb to get a job on Earth.”

He stops to take a breath, but continues before Harp can interrupt the tumble of words.

“And—and if you need to keep going slow, that’s fine,” he says. “I get it. I get that… this is new for you, and it’s weird, and it’s scary—but—but—if you’re going slow just for me, well… I know what my answer is. I’m not being like, Oh, be my boyfriend, Harp, but I think we’ve been looking for reasons for this not to work out and I’d rather just… actually try.”

He finishes and realizes he’s still shaking, but for an entirely different reason than he had been earlier. He’s almost forgotten about the wretched meal he’d abandoned downstairs, and his entire brain is lit up with scarlet-gold sparks, every neuron firing Harp’s name now, his heart thumping out a staccato morse code message to Harp, high up on Storm Mountain.

* * *

Harp doesn't meanto stretch out the pause so long, but he's doing calculations in his head, tumbling in a hundred directions. He's sober and confused and hurting for Parker and the words are out of his mouth before he thinks them through, like they always seem to be now when Parker is involved.

"Do you want to be my boyfriend, Parker? I mean do you want to try it out?"

There’s a long pause.

“Is—is that an option?” Parker finally asks.

"When I talk to you, I want to see you. When I see you, I want to kiss you. When I kiss you, I don't want anyone else to kiss you but me. I know it's selfish to ask you to be exclusive with someone you've just met who hasn't made any sort of commitment to you and has been so wishy washy but..." Harp runs out of steam. "Yeah, yes. If you'd have me. Would you be my boyfriend, Parker?"

“Oh my god. Oh my god? Oh my god,” Parker says. “I can’t—I can’t believe—I was having the worst day but now it’s kinda… the best day ever? Wait, are you serious? I know I don’t get your humor sometimes, but—no. No, wait, this definitely—oh my god.”

He stops short and Harp can actually hear him clap a hand over his mouth. The excitement in Parker's voice scares Harp—because hearing anyone be happy about having Harp in their life sets off warning bells, even after all of Parker's reassurances. At the same time, he’s almost shaking with relief that this is really something Parker wants, is truly something he cares about.

* * *

“Er, what I mean to say,”Parker says, forcing himself to speak more slowly. “Is… yes. I’d—I’d like that a lot.”

He feels like a shaken-up soda, fizzing to the brim. He feels like Bo, let out into the yard, rocketing across the lawn, doing silly flips. He feels like an Easter basket, like a phone call from an old friend, like the perfect, quiet crispness of snow at night. He feels like warm flannel, like fresh-cut flowers, like sun-warmed earth.

He feels like he’s every good thing in the world, every little piece of happiness, all stitched together, a great big wonderful mess.

His smile is so big it hurts.

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