Page 16 of Untouchable

Harp doesn't wantto talk any more about himself and he desperately flings out the first question that occurs to him before Parker can say how sad it is.

"So Parker, what would you be doing if you weren't, um, PT-ing all day?"

“Massage therapy,” Parker quickly corrects. “Not physical therapy. I… I’d be… going to the gym, maybe? Then hang out with some friends, probably. Like, grab a beer or something.”

Fitness model wasn't too far off of an assessment. His life sounds like a Mich Ultra commercial."Okay lemme guess," Harp says. "Pi Kappa Phi, right?"

“Er—ah—no,” Parker says, his laugh a little tighter.

"Tea Ultra Fry?" Harp jokes.

“I, um, wasn’t in a fraternity,” Parker says, gently kneading Harp’s calf.

"Yeah I made up that last one," Harp says, but the kid doesn't laugh. He really did mean it as a joke. Those weren't even Greek letters. "Hey, I mean, points in your column for not knowing enough about Greek life to call me on my bullshit. Waste of fucking energy, in the end."

* * *

“Haha, yeah,”Parker says, in the carefully cultivated tone he uses when he has no clue what a client is talking about.

"Where did you go to school? Somewhere in Boulder, right?" Harp’s voice is slightly muffled by the face cradle.

“No, um, just in Denver.” He knows what Harp is really asking, but his response isn’t exactly a lie—his massage therapy program was right in the city. The truth is, though, that Parker didn’t go to a “real” college—as his parents often referred to them—because he hadn’t gotten into one. No amount of studying and tutoring sessions and remedial classes had been able to get him above a C average in high school. And no amount of SAT prep courses and college admissions counselors had been able to get him into a school his parents deemed “good enough.”

So, while his sisters Celia and Vanessa—who were much older than him—were off being a doctor and a lawyer, respectively, Parker had gone to massage therapy school to become, it seemed, the family disappointment.

The conversation trails off, and Parker is grateful. He doesn’t want to explain to someone who seems as smart and well-educated as Harp about how he’s too dumb to do anything else, how whenever he’d sat down with a textbook, his throat would tighten and the words would wiggle around on the page. He doesn’t want to admit that massage therapy is the only thing he’s ever really managed to be goodat.

"So you're a serial killer, right? Parker James is a made up name so you can go full Patrick Bateman on the weekends."

Parker thinks Patrick Bateman might be an actor or something, but he’s not quite sure.

“Just a family name,” Parker says, forcing a bland laugh.

"So, if I'm putting this together right, you went to a big university, got a 4.0, and now you live with two generic Johnny Roommates in a weirdly wholesome beer commercial where you hit the gym and grab brews. Do you do anything that isn't well-adjusted?"

Parker only just manages to swallow back a loud, humorless laugh. Nothing could be further from the truth. He’s not sure how Harp managed to misjudge Parker this badly, if Harp thinks Parker is smart and well-adjusted. He finishes on this leg and re-drapes, moving to the other side.

“Wrong,” Parker says, taking care to keep his voice relaxed. “I only have onehousemate.”

"You know, I heard people like you exist but I never thought I'd meet one."

“Er… massage therapists?” Parker asks, genuinely confused. He undrapes Harp’s other leg and begins his work, starting from the foot and not going any higher than the knee, for now. It’s a deviation from his normal flow in a massage, but he has a feeling even the lightest pressure near Harp’s hip will send Harp heading for the hills if he’s not completely relaxed.

"I mean overachievers who aren't complete degenerates behind the scenes."

Parker grits his teeth, forcing another bland smile even if Harp can’t see it, and manages a weak laugh. Again, it’s almost comical how far off the mark Harp is. Or, at least, it would be comical if Parker’s life wasn’t quite so disappointing. His whole life he’s been overshadowed by his sisters, the surprise baby tacked onto the family who never quite manages to measure up. It won’t be long before Harp figures out Parker is anything but a well-adjusted overachiever.

Parker tries instead to concentrate on what he’s doing, the feel of the muscles and tendons stretched beneath skin.

* * *

He's getting dangerouslyclose to the hip and Harp's throat feels almost swollen. He's all heat and anxiety. He doesn't want to make them stop again.

"Can you give me something to work with here?” he begs abruptly. “If we don't fill the airtime with something approaching a real human conversation, I'm going to start reciting limericks or times tables or conjugating verbs in Czech."

“Er—tell me about your dogs,” Parker says quickly.

"Not me," Harp says through gritted teeth. "Tell me, uh... tell me a story?"

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