Page 80 of Tanner

I sigh in agreement. “No man has ever held a candle to him before.”

“I need to see for myself just how tall that candle is held.” He kisses the top of my head. “I’d love to meet your father. Mostly, I’d be honored to meet your mom.”

Okay, it’s official. I’m so far gone for Tanner Sexton that there is no way I’ll ever survive when he leaves.

18

TANNER

I wasn’t kidding when I said I needed to meet Harper’s dad, so I knew what I was being compared to. Being with a woman who talks about her father with such high regard as she does hers, I need to make sure I get his seal of approval.

If Mr. Doyle and I get along, it wouldn’t hurt to have someone on my side or to give advice when it comes to Harper. She’s an open book for the most part, but I have a feeling she holds back her thoughts sometimes. It’s her way of maintaining control.

My father hasn’t been the best role model on how to treat a woman. He’s good to Missy in the form of providing. She wants for nothing monetarily, and he is always placing her on a pedestal in public, showing her off and applauding her minor accomplishments.

At home, their relationship is an enigma. At first, they were always behind closed doors. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the attraction they had for each other. My high school years were full of friends wanting to come over to gawk at my stepmom in a thong bikini, lounging by the pool.

They never spoke though. Their conversations were about schedules and vacations they were planning. Laughter was seldom, and they had very few shared interests. They never even talked about their day.

When I was growing up, my parents used to talk.

I remember Mom tucking me in when I was about six years old with a Curious George book and a song, and then she’d kiss my nose while uttering the words, “To the moon and back.”

I’d ask her if she was going to bed, too, and she’d say it was, “Dad’s time.”

My dad liked to drink wine by the firepit outside. My room overlooked the backyard, so I’d watch as my mom sat on the arm of his chair, and they’d talk about their day. He’d run his hand up her arm. That was about as affectionate as he got. They rarely kissed, and he rarely told her how beautiful she was—and my mother was very beautiful. But they talked—about work, us boys, the family, stories they’d heard around town, music, and movies. Mom always had the radio on, and Dad was an old movie buff. Still is, I suppose.

By the time I was twelve, he came home less, and I remember Mom crying when she thought no one was watching. She’d wipe away the tears before anyone was in the room.

Austin said Mom was angry because Dad didn’t show up at the office anymore. Years later, he told me he suspected Dad had been having an affair. I’ve never told my brothers, but I found out years later that he and Missy had been. When I was living with them, Missy mentioned being with him for four years. My mom had only died two years before then.

I want the kind of relationship that shows no question on how I feel for my wife. I want to hug her at every turn, kiss her forehead while we snuggle on the couch, and make sure she’s happy at the end of every day. And I want that woman to be the only one I’ll ever be with for as long as I live.

From what Harper’s told me about her parents, I know that’s exactly what she wants, too.

We take the Long Island Rail Road to her town and walk from the station toward her house. She says it’s about a half-mile walk.

The shops and restaurants near the Douglaston train station are in brick buildings, and as we cross Northern Boulevard, I’m surprised at the suburban feel of the neighborhood. Old colonials are mixed with newer brick homes that are enormous in size, taking up every inch of property, leaving little yard space. The streets are wide and tree-lined. It feels more like a town in New England than New York City.

“You sure this is Queens?” I ask.

“Yep. One of the five boroughs.”

“I always pictured Queens as being like the Eddie Murphy movie Coming to America. I was expecting Queens Boulevard and people. Where are all the people?”

She giggles. “That’s more Long Island City and Sunnyside, closer to Brooklyn. My dad’s family lives there. Douglaston’s more suburban. We moved here when I was five. Dad’s business took off, and Mom fell in love with the house.”

I follow her to a colonial with white wood siding that looks to be original and black shutters. There’s a flagpole with a wagon wheel at the base and red brick pavers leading up to the front door.

Harper doesn’t knock or pull out a key. She doesn’t have to. The door swings open, and a man with short gray hair and blue eyes opens the door.

“Sweet pea!” Mr. Doyle says as he pulls his daughter in for a hug.

His eyes light up at the sight of Harper. It’s obvious she is the love of his life, and I understand the feeling.

“Daddy, I’d like for you to meet Tanner.” She turns to me with a beaming smile. “This is my dad, Kevin Doyle.”

He’s about five foot nine and wearing a flannel shirt tucked into blue jeans. He’s pretty fit for an old guy, probably from being active in his garage all day long. The lines on his face are deep, and his skin looks like leather.