Page 56 of Untouchable

He frowns and hopes for the best, watching Parker dig in.

“Oh my god,” Parker says through a mouthful of scalding dumpling. “This is so fucking good. Like, I’m not sure anything will ever top that brisket, but oh my god.”

Harp closes his eyes in what he's sure is obvious relief—but fuck it. The kid's halfway to wasted. He's not going to remember that you were worried about him liking your dinner, anyway.

* * *

“I knowwe talked about this before,” Parker says as he continues to shovel food into his mouth—his hunger has caught up with him, and now he’s ravenous. “But I still can’t get over the fact that you’re just so good at cooking everything. But I guess you’re kind of like, good at everything, you know? You seem like the kind of person who can just… learn something. Like, I bet you know how to fix cars and electric wiring and stuff.”

Harp’s at least eating his own meal now instead of watching Parker eat his. Parker knows he’s rambling again, but, in his alcohol-soaked state, every thought seems to be lit up brightly in his mind, and saying them, letting them out, seems urgent. So he keeps going.

“My dad tried to teach me how to drive stick shift when I was fifteen,” he says. “But, you know, it was on his convertible so he was super stressed the whole time and yelled at me any time I stalled or did it wrong and made it sound all grind-y. I mean, we were just going ten miles per hour in our neighborhood, but I never actually learned because I think he was convinced I’d break his car.”

He pauses, washing down a large mouthful of chicken with a sip of whiskey, which doesn’t taste half bad anymore. It doesn’t really taste like anything, now that he thinks about it.

“I get why you like this stuff, I think,” Parker says as he puts his glass down. Harp raises his eyebrow, and he looks amused. “Being drunk from, like, beer is different than wine and liquor, you know? Wine always makes me feel kinda… sleepy and sort of… soft. Like everything’s pink—I mean, not literally, but it’s, like… the same mood as pink, you know? That sounds dumb. Nevermind. Anyway, I think my parents cooked a bunch when my sisters were growing up, but by the time I came around they just ordered in a lot or got those meal delivery services. I think they were just, like, tired of it after work, you know?”

Parker glances down and realizes that almost all of his food has vanished.

“God, seriously, Harp, is this magic or something? You having magical powers would make sense, I think,” Parker says around the last mouthful of chicken. “You know, living up alone on a mountain top. Anyway, when I moved out of my parents’ house I had no idea how to feed myself, and I lived on, like, those frozen meals that you heat up in the microwave for a couple months until I thought I was gonna vomit if I had to eat pasta primavera one more time. So I like, learned how to make the basics and stuff, but like, it’s never good, you know? It’s just like, food. Mindy helps me sometimes, and she’s a little better than me, but… nothing like this.”

He forgoes any social graces he might have had and picks the bowl up so he can drink the last of the broth.

* * *

As Parker speaks,Harp can feel some of the remaining tension in him uncoil.

At first, he's not sure why. Parker isn't talking particularly calmly, or saying anything that puts him at ease. But then he gets it: the sound of Parker talking at any sustained length now soothes him. It's Pavlovian. He associates Parker's rambling with their sessions together—and, incredibly, their sessions must be more beneficial than stressful now. Because listening to Parker's voice does make him calm. It makes him centered, even though the likes have crept back into Parker’s vocabulary as he gets more alcohol into his system. Harp realizes he doesn’t even notice the verbal placeholders anymore. Now that he’s given Parker the benefit of the doubt that he’s not vapid, that the lights really are on upstairs, he finds that the extra bit of like, um, y’know? gives Parker’s stories a different flavor than they would in Harp’s own words.

It’s a bit like powdered sugar, he realizes.

Harp wonders if it's in bad taste to let Parker ramble when it's true that Harp hungers so much for more details about his life. Even when he tries not to be interested, Harp finds his mind snagging on key details like a sweater on a nail: a prized convertible in the driveway, a stressed father, an exhausted mother, and a family unit more focused on Parker's doctor and lawyer sisters than the family's youngest.

It tugs at something in him. He can't imagine living without the close relationship he has with his youngest brother—without that tether to his family, his history.

Harp doesn't let himself get distracted, though. There's something in the way that Parker talks that keeps him hanging on and by the time he's done with his meal, Harp can guess at what it is.

Parker is used enough to talking about himself—but maybe he's not used to being listened to.

There's something about whiskey and a full belly that makes Harp feel like he's meant to tackle the world's problems, and he reminds himself that he barely knows Parker. A few choice details do not a family history make.

* * *

"Do you want some more?"Harp offers. "Or something else?"

Parker pauses to consider this. He feels happy and sunny inside—despite relentless snowfall beyond the windows. He’s been doing most of the talking through the meal, chattering at Harp about what he’s sure are truly unimportant and boring things. But Harp has been nodding and responding as if he really does care. His attention is intoxicating, and now that Parker has been given this little sliver of Harp—generous, thoughtful, attentive—he’s getting greedy. He has a hundred thousand things he wants to know about Harp, but he’s afraid to press too hard, worried that Harp might pull back and lock himself back up once more.

“God, I mean, I could probably keep eating until I died,” he says. “But—that was really good. I think I’m fine for now. Or… I wouldn’t say no to another beer.” He leans forward, his eyes glinting, and reaches across the table to poke Harp in the arm. “Come on, Harp, let’s get drunk tonight. That’s the best thing to do when there’s a big storm.”

Harp clicks his tongue.

"You need a glass of water, and I need a cigarette," Harp says.

Parker starts to protest but Harp grabs his glass and stands up to refill it.

"Throw a coat on. We can take the dogs out."

Parker heaves a very dramatic sigh but does as he’s told, choosing a coat from the large selection hanging by the door. It’s a nice coat, but it dwarfs him, and when he pulls the hood up over his head it falls down in front of his eyes. He doesn’t even bother asking permission to slide on the pair of rainboots—also several sizes too big—that are lined up by the door.

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