Page 272 of Untouchable

Parker can’t thinkof a worse time for her to interrupt—he needs to hear what Harp says next. A part of him is yearning for some kind of absolution or forgiveness from Harp, some kind of reassurance that Parker hasn’t ruined the night by, like, um, being a moron, you know?

But instead he follows Harp, who follows the hostess, and he realizes he’s drunker than he wants to be and hardly hungry anymore. He trails after them like a kicked puppy.

“I just think Gil would give you more respect if you didn’t sound so... like,unsure?“

The words rattle around in his brain, like sneakers thunking around in a dryer, until it feels like the only thing he can hear.

You went too fast.

This is Harp. He can’t have meant it.

You made excuses for Cole, too.

Harp isn’t like Cole.

Do you really know that, though?

Parker stares down at the menu, and of course, as soon as he tries to parse the appetizers, the letters begin to slide around on the page like someone is stir frying them in a pan. He’s half close to panic, desperate to shut that nasty voice up in his head, but also wondering if, perhaps, he’s simply trying to dismiss a voice of reason, trying to dodge the truth.

Gil appears almost the moment the waitress walks away.

“Nice, finally,” Gil says, grabbing the menu. “I read online that this place does a lot of local stuff and free range everything. And game, too, if you’re into weird elk burgers or rabbit saddles or whatever.”

Neither Parker or Harp rush to answer him.

"Okaay... Great," Gil says, stretching out the words. "We alright?"

Parker puts together the sentence in his mind before he speaks, collecting all the words and lining them up like little soldiers in his brain so he won’t sound, like, unsure.

“Yes,” he says, his voice coming out strangely formal. “Those cocktails hit me a little stronger than I expected.”

An expression spreads across Gil's face that doesn't quite look like a smile.

* * *

Harp feelslike he's barely even there, just hanging on. The dining room is impossibly crowded and it's difficult to make out what Parker and Gil are saying over the background din.

The people around them are beautiful, drinking wine, talking easily, laughing quietly, eating delicately, sipping the right wines, wearing the right clothes, celebrating the end of the holidays the right way, and even without talking to any of them, Harp feels exposed and seen and intimidated. His logical mind knows that nobody in the room cares about him—or if they recognize him and do care, they've already made their minds up about him and there's nothing Harp can do about it.

And still his mind reels. He's hungry, but the dining room is so thick with food smells that it almost nauseates him. Every aspect is overwhelming and despite the fact that he is sitting between his closest living relative and his boyfriend—the two people he loves more than anyone else on earth—he feels utterly drifting and alone.

* * *

The silenceat the table is heavy, as if they’ve somehow been partitioned off, quarantined, from the other diners, trapped in a little bubble where the air is too thick to really breathe properly. Parker’s too afraid to speak now, and Harp is on another planet entirely. He blinks down at the menu, running his finger carefully along each line to help himself track, but it’s barely working. Which makes him panic. Which only makes it worse. And soon, he’s worked himself into such a state he has no idea what the fuck the restaurant even serves.

“Hey, um—” Parker squeaks, thrusting his menu towards Harp, even though Harp has his own. “Do you think I’d like this?” He points to the menu, stabbing at random at some dish.

* * *

Harp sobersa little at the question, at the vulnerable little voice Parker makes that Harp only half recognizes.

He reorients himself as best he can, forcing himself into the moment, back down into his body where it sits in the narrow, uncomfortable chair.

Sweet Parker cannot read the menu—not because he is stupid or an airhead or vapid but because his brain is built different than some, because the shapes of the letters won't stay still for him—and so fuck what Gil thinks. Harp scans the menu, looking for items he knows Parker would like.

"This gnocchi sounds right up your alley," Harp says, leaning forward and pointing to the menu. "Or this roasted chicken with rosemary roasted potatoes sounds like that thing I made the other day you liked..."

Parker gives Harp a look saturated with relief. Parker takes the menu back and pretends to examine it.

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