Page 24 of Untouchable

Parker isbeyond grateful when Harp hands him a second serving. He wants to eat approximately four trillion more pounds of brisket, according to his stomach, but the thought of asking for more is mortifying. He already feels like such an imposition on Harp, and he wonders if Harp is wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into when he’d booked a massage therapist.

To be fair, Parker hadn’t really expected things to turn out like this either.

“Oh no,” Parker says. “Yeah, you don’t make that mistake twice.” He pauses, taking a long sip of water. The truth is, Parker doesn’t drink much. Part of it is a health thing—whenever he finds himself drinking a lot, it’s not long before a thin layer of body fat is covering his otherwise visible abs, and he gets a little vain about it. The other part is a little more embarrassing—Parker tends to get, well, a little slutty when he drinks. Once he’s more than a little tipsy, he ends up climbing into laps or sending ill-advised text messages to exes.

“Er, a bit,” Parker says. “I don’t go too crazy. Usually just beer.”

The silence gets longer and longer, and it takes Parker a few moments of discomfort to realize that this silence isn’t exactly bad. It’s simply... quiet. And still. Two things Parker doesn’t get a lot of. He’s antsy without something to talk about, to keep his mind from racing in 10 million directions like it always does, so he tries to focus on the food, the texture of the brisket in his mouth, the complex taste of the spices Harp used, the gentle clink of silverware against plates.

* * *

Harp has nothing to say,and for the first time since they've met, he feels okay with letting the conversation lag for a moment. He'd almost been looking forward to their session tonight because of the physical relief the last one had brought him—but now he'd be content sitting here and feeding Parker as much as he can eat.

Harp hates one-on-one transactional relationships, where a provider gives you a service and you give them money. The barter system has more of an appeal to Harp, and even though it's awkward and weird of him, even though the last thing the kid probably wants to do in the world is sit here with him, at least Harp feels like he's no longer so indebted to Parker.

Parker has seen Harp low and anxious. Harp had seen Parker, well, nervous and hungry. Maybe someday they’d almost be even.

"What do your housemates do?" Harp asks. "Do you like them?"

It has taken him a few minutes, but he's found something he knows is neutral ground. Everyone loves to complain about roommates, right?

And Parker can’t turn it around because Harp clearly has no current experience with the concept, living here alone on the mountain.

“Uh, yeah,” Parker says, seeming startled by the question. “I—she’s fine. She works with me at Rocky Mountain and she’s pretty much my best friend. I love living with her, actually.”

“So, a girlfriend then?”

Parker barks a laugh and then makes eye contact with Harp, going suddenly somber. “Oh my gosh, you’re serious. No, definitely not a girlfriend. We’re just close friends.”

Harp raises an eyebrow. It seems perfectly unlikely that a woman could live with Parker and not want to be more than friends, but he realizes that’s none of his business.

"Well, that’s admirable. I haven’t exactly seen a lot of platonic men and women roommates working out without complicated passive aggressive bullshit constantly simmering just beneath the surface"

Parker falters slightly.

“I—I mean—sometimes it’s—a little annoying if she’s taking forever in the shower but—”

Harp laughs. “No, I’m sorry, it’s totally none of my business. We’re probably breaking fifty rules from your work just sitting here together, right?”

Harp means the words as half joke—no, at least 75% joke—but he's not so practiced at emoting and by the look on Parker's face, it doesn't quite land right.

Jesus, Harp. Read the room.You probably are violating work rules and you just pointed it out to him. Wonderful.

Parker winces. He looks down at his plate.

“No—sorry—I, uh—” He pauses and swallows. “Sorry, I’m just… a little intimidated by you. You’re, like, really smart and interesting and stuff.”

Harp blinks hard like someone has blown dust in his face.

I'm sorry. What?

"That's great to hear," Harp says stilted, as if he's having to whittle each word before he actually announces it. "Thought I was boring you, to be honest."

His eyes fix on a point somewhere past Parker's head. There's suddenly way, way too much attention being paid to him, even though it's just Harp and Parker there in the house. He feels twenty degrees too hot, like a kid in trouble during class.

“What?” Parker asks, his head popping up. His expression is caught somewhere between a frown and a laugh. “No, I mean—like, yeah sometimes I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you live alone up here and have all these dogs and are an amazing cook and it’s just—all of this stuff I could never do—” Parker clears his throat. “And, uh, yeah, it’s… cool.”

"Oh yeah, kid, I'm the arbiter of cool. A veritable Marlboro Man with a bad hip and a panic disorder."

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