Page 17 of Untouchable

He feels Parker pause for a moment, his movements going slower as he tries to deal with Harp’s bizarre request. Harp half expects Parker to say that he can’t think of anything, but when Parker begins speaking, his voice is even.

“One time my parents left me at a rest stop while we were on a family vacation,” Parker says. “My dad got this great—and by great I mean really not great—idea to rent an RV with our family, so we were packed in with all my aunts and uncles and siblings and cousins. I think there were twelve of us total.”

It really does relax Harp to hear Parker talk. Anything that gets him out of his own head for a minute. Parker sounds different, too—the likes and uhs and yknows? have all just dropped out of his vocabulary for the time being, and Harp realizes how much more intelligent and confident Parker sounds without all of the valley girl extras.

“When I came out of the bathroom, they were just… gone.” Parker continues. “So I got a soda from the vending machine and waited. They were back within an hour, at least.”

"Oh my God. I thought you were going to make something up but that's so much better. So you've been this well behaved since you were just a Parker Jameslet? A proto-Parker?"

“I guess, yeah,” Parker says. He’s working his way a little higher up Harp’s leg—not quite to his hip, but definitely getting closer. The trajectory is clear. “I have two sisters who are a lot older than me and… I dunno, it never would have even occurred to me to misbehave.”

Harp has fifty different thoughts about his youngest brother Gil, who must—Harp now realizes—be just about Parker's age. Not as mature as Parker by any means, but not everyone could be so perfect.

"Please tell me you raised hell at some point in your career," Harp says.

“I went to a party in high school. I had beer. Kissed someone I shouldn’t have.” He clears his throat. “But that’s about it. Sorry to disappoint you.”

Kissed someone I shouldn't haveis the last thing he expected Parker to say, and as innocuous as it is, the statement is like Proust's madeleine for Harp—memories and hurts and regrets spiraling out and away.

In almost the same instant, Parker drags his forearm lightly across the skin covering Harp's tender hip. Harp shudders and lets out an awkward huff. It doesn't quite hurt, but he feels like the wind's been knocked out of him by the combination.

“Pressure okay?” Parker asks.

"Yep, we're good." Harp wants to lock it down, shut off and step back, but he's supposed to communicate. "Just don't stop talking. Please."

“Great—You’re doing great,” Parker says. It must take him a moment to decide what story he’s going to tell next, but after a short pause he starts talking again. “I, uh, was on the soccer team in high school. And played lacrosse and stuff. I liked sports.”

If Harp were alone, he'd be wincing and groaning and cussing. It doesn't hurt any more than the hip does normally after a work day just walking around, but the fragility of being in someone's care, under someone else's hands, is almost too much.

“I… did cross country, too,” Parker continues. “Didn’t like it as much though. I liked running, I mean, but I didn’t like how alone you were for most of it. I liked team stuff better—it was always way more fun. Felt good to be a part of something, all of us working towards a goal.”

It wasn't this bad after the accident during PT. When did it get this bad?

When did I get this weird?Harp wonders abruptly.

Normally when someone else is this close to Harp, it's like there's not enough oxygen in the world for both of them. But Parker is good at what he does, and even though he's talking about literally the least interesting subject in the world—high school memories—the sound of his voice and steady cadence helps Harp stay grounded.

* * *

Parker continues babblingabout his high school sports days—it’s all he can think of, and athletic stuff is something Parker’s always been confident at. He was never quite tall or fast or strong enough to get a scholarship anywhere, but he had always liked being on teams, had liked feeling included.

He moves on from Harp’s leg, circling around to work on his back and shoulders. He thinks Harp might have fallen asleep, but he doesn’t dare stop talking. And, he finds, it gets easier over time. He’s pretty sure that, even if Harp is awake, he’s not actually paying attention to what Parker’s saying. It feels a bit like writing in a diary.

So Parker keeps talking, rambling on about the time he miraculously scored the winning goal in soccer from almost halfway across the field, how his teammates had dogpiled him, laughing and cheering and yelling his name. He tells Harp—or the room, rather, because he’s sure Harp isn’t listening—about the time when he’d sprinted so hard during a track meet that he’d thrown up as he crossed the finish line but still only got second place. He relives long hours in his backyard in the summers of high school, the sky still washed in pink at 9 p.m., when he’d practice soccer drills alone, feeling physically exhausted but peaceful, almost meditative.

Rambling away is making him feel strangely... good. He’s wrapped up in the rhythm and the motion of his work, thinking about the days when he excelled at something, when the future felt a little brighter than it did these days.

He finds himself grinning, a natural and relaxed and realsmile.

* * *

Harp is so shockedthat someone could remember scores and plays from Little League baseball to adult ultimate frisbee that he forgets to clench up. The numbers and dates and mascots and personal bests wash over Harp like warm waves.

Like when they've taken the Harptopus inside,he thinks, and the poor schmuck tries to make heads or tails of what the marine biologists are saying after a lifetime at the bottom of the abyss. I feel ya, buddy.

Parker's hands and wrists and forearms and fingers move and move and move and Harp stops trying to keep track of what part of Parker is pressing into what part of his own anatomy. When he gets going, Parker feels like he's a Swiss Army knife of massage, using the blades of his hands, the heels of his palms, the stiff part of his forearm to glide over Harp's skin and it's hard to reconcile the sensory feedback with Parker's real hands.

It would be hypnotizing if Harp weren't busy cataloging every detail of this kid's sports career. He has plenty of tender spots in the meat of his back, and concentrating on the words keeps him from wincing, from going skittish again.

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