Page 242 of Untouchable

Gil looks Parker over a second time. "Therapist Harp," he says with a soft snort. "Well, that's nice of him."

Parker sits there for a moment, nonplussed. He can’t quite tell if Gil’s interested in talking or not, because none of his responses seem to open any avenues for conversation, and Parker can’t seem to answer any of his questions right.

“What’s Portland like?” he says. “I’ve never been to the west coast.”

"It's great if you hate sunshine, which I do. Are you from here?"

“Er, Denver, but… pretty much. It’s only like an hour away. Which I guess you knew because you flew there,” Parker mumbles.

"Wow, so have you ever tried living outside of Colorado?"

“Oh—” Parker says, startled by the question. “Well… no. I like Colorado, though, I think? I like all the mountains. It’s really sunny, and it’s pretty liberal, at least in most parts of the state. And I guess—well, it’s my home, you know? I’m not sure… where else I would go.”

He tucks his feet under himself, thinking of how impressed he’d been when Harp had told him about the places he’d lived before landing on the side of a mountain in Colorado. Maybe being an adventurer, not being afraid to strike out on one’s own, was just a Harper family trait.

"Well, I couldn't have gotten out of Florida without Harp's help, but I really recommend looking around and figuring out where you fit," Gil says, like it's the simplest thing in the world. "I mean, obviously Harp isn't going to encourage you to move because he's pretty set up here but it's something to keep in mind."

Parker makes a non-committal noise, smiling weakly. He certainly isn’t going to tell Gil that he has found where he fits—and it’s right here, in this cabin, on Storm Mountain.

“So how long are you planning on staying?” he asks, and immediately winces, hoping Gil doesn’t interpret that as Parker not-so-subtly asking how soon are you leaving? That’s really not what he’d meant at all.

"I have to go back the day after tomorrow," Gil says. "I've got a gig doing merch for a friend's thing that's on tour and that starts up on the 28th so I have to get back."

“Oh, wow,” Parker says, sitting forward. “A band? That’s so cool.”

"Um, sort of. They don't really like being called a band because they're more of an art collective? But it's whatever. Musicians," Gil says with a smile, like they're both in on a great joke.

Parker has no clue what an art collective is, but he smiles and nods as if he totally gets it.

“Do you… play any instruments or anything?” he asks, surreptitiously looking out the window and wondering where the hell Harp is.

Gil rattles off a laundry list of different musical instruments he claims to be proficient in, from something Parker's never heard about called a theremin to the four-string banjo.

"I'd really like to pick up with something informal—a weekly jam or whatever—but I'm not playing with anybody right now. Do you play?"

Parker laughs.

“Uh, no—I got assigned to play the wood brick in elementary school and then got it taken away because I couldn’t keep a beat to save my life.”

"So what do you do when you're not with Harp or working?"

Parker has deja vu, as if he’s reliving the first few times he’d interacted with Harp, feeling like his answers to these questions are impossibly dull and vapid, wishing he were better, cooler, smarter.

But he’s just Parker, so he answers honestly.

“I work a lot,” he says. “I try to go to the gym regularly to keep up with my training plan, and, um, hanging out with friends, I guess?”

"No hobbies? No... weird, secret passions?" Gil asks, smiling. He almost seems... friendly.

“I like dogs,” Parker says, thinking, encouraged by Gil’s smile. “And the outdoors. When I was a kid I was really into model trains. You know, those, like, really elaborate ones with all the tiny houses? I didn’t even care that much about the trains I just really liked setting up all the little buildings and trees and cows and stuff.” He’s not sure why he’s bringing this up now, but he runs with it.

"Wow," Gil says, staying friendly. "Did you see that thing on John Oliver this year where HBO sent that insane model train to Scranton or wherever? God that segment was fucking hysterical."

“Oh, yeah,” Parker says blandly, plastering a fake smile on his face, even though he has no idea what any of the proper nouns in that sentence are.

"Oh my God," Gil says dramatically louder. "Where is Harp?"

Parker has been wondering the exact same thing. He looks stiffly towards the kitchen, as if Harp will magically appear in the doorway like he’s been summoned.

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