Page 19 of Untouchable

Parker brushes past Harp awkwardly in his desperation to get up the stairs. Once they’re no longer in the same room, it’s easier for Parker to get his feet underneath him.

He quickly strips the sheets and folds his table. It’s not the first time he’s recognized a client was attractive, but it is the first time it’s hit him this hard.

Parker’s not even sure why. It doesn’t hurt that Harp is his type to a T—a little older than him, maybe, but Parker’s late night solo browser search history is nothing if not consistent. It’s more than just physical attraction, which would be easier to ignore. There’s something about the way that Harp had softened for him, had trusted Parker to take away his pain. Parker finds himself infinitely curious about this man, alone on a mountaintop, who is so guarded and so full of pain.

But he’d trustedParker.

Or, maybe, he thinks, he’s just flattering himself and needs to get a grip.

He finishes packing up his equipment and hauls it downstairs.

“So, make sure to drink a lot of water today,” Parker says, and instead of meeting Harp’s eyes he looks at his forehead. “Like, a lot. And you probably won’t feel sore tomorrow, but you might. That can happen with deeper tissue stuff.”

He pauses, then blurts the last part out.

“And, um, don’t be surprised if... you get a headache or feel some weird emotions today or tomorrow. I know it sounds weird, but... sometimes it happens. Your body’s just processing old junk.”

Parker stops himself, knowing he sounds insane. It’s a real phenomenon, one that Parker himself has experienced, but he’s also pretty sure Harp subscribes to the same crunchy granola philosophies as some of his massage school teachers. He blushes, looking down at his shoes.

* * *

“But,uh, yeah. Water. Lots of water.”

Parker isn't talking in his massage therapist voice anymore, even though they’re still talking about massage therapy. It's kind of nice.

Harp nods at the instructions blankly, knowing he's going to take a shot of whiskey and a nap the minute Parker is out the door. Parker finishes up his speech and seems unsure of what to do next.

"Got it. Same time next week, right?" Harp asks. Parker's eyes go a little glassy, but he nods.

He doesn't mean to push Parker out the door, but some part of him is reasserting himself, ready to be alone again, and after he passes over today’s tip, Harp can't help putting a hand in the center of Parker's back to usher him forward.

Parker practically leaps out the door, nearly tripping over the small step, in his haste to get to his car. Harp is annoyed at himself for miscalculating, for touching him.

“Sure thing,” Parker squeaks. “Next week.”

"Be safe getting down. Those switchbacks are a bitch," Harp says, giving him a curt wave and then closing the door behind him.

The silence in the house echoes. I don't mind it, he reminds himself.

He paces to the kitchen, pours a shot of the nice whiskey he buys by the case, and chases it with the biggest glass of water he can put his hands on. Not because Parker told him so, he's decided.

It's not until Harp is drunk, dehydrated, and crying about how terrible he’d been to his ex-wife at 2 a.m. the morning after his first session that he realizes he might ought to listen to the kid more when Parker tells him what to expect.

It feels a little bit like a magic trick, whatever has happened to kick loose the old guilt about Cherry. He chalks it up to the power of suggestion, the way Parker had brought "weird emotions" up out of nowhere. You weren't storing bad memories of the ex you fucked over in between fat folds,Harp, he reassures himself.

But Parker had definitely been right, one way or the other, and as their next session approaches, Harp mentally marks off time to rest... and prepares to put off his self-care drinking hours until at least 7 or 8 p.m. the night after.

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