Page 80 of Untouchable

Parker doesn’t even know where this sudden flare of confidence, of surety, has come from. His heart is in his throat, but it feels crucial to say this to Harp, because he’s not sure if Harp has ever heard that before.

And, goddamnit, he’s going to make Harp believe it, too. Or at least he’s going to try.

Harp pockets the cigarette he was struggling to light and sighs. His expression is closed and unreachable. When he speaks, he sounds weary.

"That's—Parker, you don't know how much I love hearing you say I'm kind and generous. But that only goes to show me that the Morton Harper you think you've been getting to know is an edited, curated version of me. I don't want to stop being your friend, so I don't want to talk about... all the other stuff."

There’s no snow on the mat where Parker is standing, but the deck is icy cold, and he dances from one bare foot to the other, wrapping his arms around himself.

“We don’t have to talk about this,” Parker says, and he realizes he’s mad now. He feels strangely betrayed by Harp, by this line Harp has drawn that he won’t let Parker past. “But don’t act like—don’t act like I don’t know anything. Everyone in my fucking life acts like I’m too dumb to take care of myself but I’m not. Like, oh, poor Parker, we’ve gotta protect him from himself or he’ll walk into the middle of traffic or something. You’re the one always saying I’ve got my shit together more than I realize, you know. So don’t—don’t do this dumb you just don’t know any betterroutine.”

* * *

"You don't knowany better because I haven't given you a balanced picture of who I am—not because you're a moron. You're anything but. I don't have time for morons, but I'd happily fritter away several days making sure you're having fun."

Harp's words are sharper than he means them to be. He means the statement as proof of how much he already cares about Parker, but it sounds like a complaint as soon as it's out of his mouth.

“Well, great then,” Parker says. Harp can see his face crumpling as he turns around and goes inside, shutting the door with a little more force than is necessary.

Harp thinks that maybe the best thing is for both of them to cool off for a moment. He stands facing the valley and smokes. When he gets like this, it's impossible to say the right thing—and he seems to have a knack for saying exactly the wrong things to Parker.

When he's almost ready to come back inside, he peeks in the window, only to see Parker pulling on his shoes with a bulky jacket on his back. Harp panics, stubbing out his cigarette and stepping inside.

"What are you doing?"

“I’m leaving,” Parker snaps. “You don’t need to worry about entertaining me anymore.”

* * *

He knows he’s being immature and ridiculous. He knows he’s acting like a child. But one minute, they’re sharing a light-hearted conversation about skiing, and the next, Harp is frowning at Parker, his expression hard and dark, and spouting something bullshit about Parker doesn’t know the realHarp.

Fuck that,Parker thinks.

"There's nowhere for you to go, Parker," Harp says. He sounds exhausted, like a parent in a grocery store looking down as their child throws a tantrum over marshmallow cereal.

Parker is suddenly ashamed.

He drops his shoes to the ground with a loud thunk and peels the jacket off. He sinks down onto the couch, running a hand through his hair.

Nice one, he thinks. Get mad about being treated like a child and then go and act like a child.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice heavy. He sighs, glancing up at Harp. “That was…. melodramatic. I just—I don’t want—I feel like—”

He stops, takes a breath, and tries again. He can see the truth of the moment, sitting there, staring right back at him, but it’s so hard to say out loud, as if the words have some impossibly strong gravity pulling them back down his throat.

“One of the reasons you’re so important to me, Harp,” Parker says, looking down at the floor, “is that… I always feel like… an equal with you. You don’t talk down to me. You don’t… try to simplify things because you think I won’t get it. You don’t… treat me like I’m some kind of… well-trained puppy or whatever that just needs a pat on the head.”

He sighs.

“You don’t have to… talk about shit you don’t want to. I’m not trying to force you to, like, reveal all the skeletons in your closet or whatever. But the way you said it just… made me feel like—”

You made me feel like I’d done something wrong, and I can’t understand what.

He trails off, feeling needy and insecure and pathetic.

“But, y’know—you don’t get to show me only a certain side of yourself, and then get mad at me when I believe it. Either you trust me to make my own decisions or you don’t.”

* * *

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