Page 131 of Untouchable

Parker's reply doesn't come until early the next morning.

>>PARKER: [attachment: one image]

>>PARKER: lil too early for day drinking but you're right

The picture is clearer than the night before: Parker in his driver's seat, holding a cardboard cup of coffee, pretending to contemplate the wisdom in getting a drink before he hits the road.

Harp smiles fondly and taps out a reply.

* * *

Parker has been dreading going backto Denver for the holiday, and it’s even worse than he had expected. It starts off tolerable, but even after a few hours, the sniping and the passive-aggressive tones and the judgement are already wearing him down.

But each time Harp texts him, he feels a bright peal of joy somewhere in his chest, and it almost makes up for having to be apart.

Parker’s mother drags them all out to dinner that night, and so Parker pockets his phone, wishing he could send Harp quotes from his dad’s commentary on foreign policy, on the climate, on the election, and everything in between. Parker stays quiet for the most part, only chiming in just enough to keep his mother from commenting that he’s “being surly,” and taking a sip from his wine glass whenever it seems like someone’s about to ask him a question. As a result, by the end of the evening, he’s thoroughly wine-drunk and feeling deflated.

As soon as they’re home, he mumbles that he’s going to bed, though it’s not even nine, and escapes up into his room—which, of course, had been converted to a guest room as soon as Parker had moved to Mink Creek.

Flushed from wine and relatively miserable, he strips off his shirt and throws himself onto the bed. He wants to tell Harp about it, about how being with them is the emotional equivalent of being dragged across a dull cheese grater for hours on end, about how it’s either gotten worse or maybe he didn’t even realize how bad it was. It’s too much to put into text, right now, so he just holds the phone high above him, snaps a picture of himself frowning, and sends it to Harp.

>>PARKER: is it friday yet? im ready to go back

* * *

Parker's repliescome farther and farther apart and although some selfish part of Harp is upset about that, he realizes that it's good that Parker is spending time with his family instead of paying attention to Harp.

In the late afternoon, his phone buzzes with a call and for a split second, Harp’s heart soars, imagining that Parker is calling him. Instead, he sees Gil’s info when he picks up the phone. He’s not exactly disappointed—Harp hasn’t talked to Gil in weeks—but sadly talking to his brother doesn’t feel like enough anymore to fill Harp’s well of social needs.

“Frank’s Taxidermy, you snuff ‘em, we stuff ‘em, Frank speaking,” Harp says seriously into the phone. Gil cracks up for a moment before actually answering and Harp feels instantly bad that he was disappointed that the call wasn’t from Parker. Gil still laughs at his jokes, humors him, looks to Harp for advice, loves him. He’s the only family Harp has left.

“Well, I called to wish you an early Happy Thanksgiving. How the hell are you, Harp?” Gil asks after a moment.

“I’m good,” Harp says, meaning it. “Pretty astoundingly good, actually. How about you?”

“Same,” Gil says. Instead of asking Harp why his life is going well lately, Gil launches into a monologue that goes so fast Harp can barely keep up. “So, you remember Pele who I met at that post-shoegaze house show I went to in August? I seriously never thought he was gonna call me back but lo and behold, the guy calls me last week and asks if I want to come to this Thanksgiving vegan potluck he’s hosting. But I already told Theodore that I’d go with him and London to this charity pub crawl thing on Thanksgiving, plus I’m volunteering again that morning at the soup kitchen for this gospel brunch thing they’re doing early in the day—so holy shit, it’s going to be such a fun day tomorrow but I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“Holy shit is right,” Harp says. He vaguely remembers most of the names, either from past gigs that Gil has described or from long retellings of friend-group drama. “Your schedule is packed, as usual.”

“I know. It’s so different from living at home. I could do ten interesting things every day in Portland for free if I wanted to.”

“I love that,” Harp says. “I really do. I knew there had to be a fit for you out there.”

“You were totally right. And, I guess, since it’s Thanksgiving, I should tell you that I’m most thankful for you.”

Harp frowns and his throat feels abruptly tight. It means a lot to him, but as usual he’s too sober to find the right words to say back.

“Thanks, Gil. I’m really thankful for you, too,” he says. But not, Harp realizes for the first time in a decade, the most thankful for you. “Have you talked to mom and dad?”

Gil snorts. “Uhhh, have you?” he asks after he realizes that Harp isn’t joking.

“Hell no.”

“Exactly,” Gil says. “Anyway, I’m not gonna keep you since I’m sure you’ve got a million things to do.”

“No, it’s not like that—I always like hearing from you,” Harp says. He wishes Gil would call more often, really, but he doesn’t want to say it and put pressure on his brother to do anything differently.

“Yeah right,” Gil says, laughing fondly. “I’ll talk to you before Christmas, okay?”

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