Page 9 of Untouchable

Parker can’t seemto say anything in response, and he feels smaller and smaller by the second. Harp, on the other hand, seems more relaxed now—there had been a moment, when he’d first opened the door, before he’d realized Parker was still there, when Harp had radiated a kind of steadiness, a confidence, that Parker hadn’t seen before.

But of course, it is replaced by something worse than anger—derision, almost—as though Parker has done something utterly ridiculous.

Parker’s face flushes bright red, but the words still won’t come, and he stutters, not managing to say anything coherent.

"I appreciate the show of work ethic, kid, but there's no way in hell I'm getting back on that table."

Harp tucks the towel securely so he can move around hands-free and he rummages in the bedside table for cigarettes. He finds a lighter and the pack of cigarettes, tucking one into the side of his mouth before offering the open pack out to Parker.

Parker is so shocked by this—by everything—that he just stares at Harp.

"Suit yourself," Harp says around the cigarette.

Parker realizes in horror that his eyes are pricking with tears. There’s just something so mortifying about the dismissive tone in Harp’s voice, and Parker is transported instantly back to elementary school, listening to teachers and tutors and his own parents lecture him—different words, each time, but there had always been the same, underlying thesis.

Why are you so dumb, Parker?

Parker wished he knew. If he could be different, he would.

Before the tears have a chance to fall, Parker ducks his head and begins packing up his equipment. This time, though, the familiar movements offer no solace. He can feel Harp’s eyes burning into him.

"So, what, you wanted to make sure I was going to be around to watch you pack up?" Harp asks.

Parker swallows hard to gain control of his voice. It’s always painfully obvious when he is about to cry, so he keeps his face hidden.

Be a professional, Parker reminds himself. Trust your training.

“I wanted to give you the option to continue treatment,” he says, and he’s grateful that he manages to not burst into tears when he talks. He even sounds something close to normal. Kind of. Not really. But whatever. “I apologize if the session wasn’t satisfactory. I’ll make sure Mindy credits your account, so you won’t have to pay. If you’re interested, you can set up an appointment with a different therapist.”

House calls are lucrative—the main reason Parker does them—and losing a full day’s income will hurt, but Parker’s doing damage control right now. He’s about to sprint down the stairs and never look back, and at this point, he wants to put a whole continent between himself and whatever his mistake was.

* * *

Oh my God, Harp thinks. I cannot fucking do this.

This overgrown kid comes into his house a week before he’s ready for it, puts him through agony, and now Parker is, what, sad about the fact that he doesn't get to keep murdering the muscles in Harp's hip? Harp's just given him an out and he's standing here looking like a kicked puppy.

Harp had just been trying to get a rise out of him before—to treat him like a human being instead of a massage robot.

He doesn't know how to do pleasantries and small talk. He doesn't know how to sound convincing when he says he's not mad.

Harp lips the cigarette to the other side of his mouth, rubs the back of his neck, and looks at the floor.

"I'll pay for the session."

“Rocky Mountain has, um, a policy for if a massage is... terminated by the client,” he says. “If you choose not to rebook with a different therapist, you’ll receive a refund.”

"I told you, I'm going to pay for it," Harp repeats.

"I—you already did. You pre-paid for the session when you booked."

"Oh. I did?" Harp asks. "I did. Well, uh."

Parker is almost completely packed up. Before the session had ended, before Parker had stuck around to talk to Harp even after he’d stood in the damned shower for half an hour, Harp would've given anything to have the stranger out of his house—but not like this.

Kicking people out is only satisfying if they want to stay, and the way Parker stumbles over his words no longer seems awkward or makes Harp impatient. It’s the opposite; knowing the kid is nervous suddenly has Harp fumbling to somehow smooth over the situation. It hadn’t been Parker’s fault, really. Anyone in Parker’s situation would’ve made Harp nervous. It wasn’t fair, the way Harp had snapped at him.

And he still stayed.

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