Page 115 of Doughn't Let Me Go

“Dad!” Kyrie calls out, only this time it sounds likeDuh-add, alluding to her growing annoyance.

Spoiled little shit.

I step away from the pictures of the kind of family I long for, making a mental note to talk to Winston about setting up a photoshoot with me and Kyrie, and head down the hall to Riker’s room.

When I walk in, I’m surprised to find it’s just Doris and Kyrie inside.

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Wren took baby Nellie for a drive to get her to calm down, and Riker decided he’s still hungry. Drew’s making him another bottle.”

I nod, moving into the room. “What’s up, kiddo? You rang for me?”

“I didn’t call you, but I could if you bought me a cell phone.”

“Ha. Keep dreaming. Speaking of dreaming…why aren’t you sleeping yet?”

She lifts her little shoulder. “I don’t know. I can’t fall asleep. I was thinking maybe you could tell me that story you used to tell me about those guys who are covered in grease?”

I feel Dory’s stare on me, but I don’t turn toward her.

When Kyrie was younger, she’d ask me to tell her a story. I told her the one I know by heart—The Outsiders.

I settle down on the floor where Kyrie’s makeshift bed is. She begged and pleaded to stay the night with the “little kids,” as she calls them. And because I can’t deny her anything, here we are.

“There once was a group of guys who were covered in grease…” Kyrie starts for me, and Dory snorts out a laugh, then quickly covers her mouth.

“What’s so funny?” my daughter asks her.

“Nothing,” Dory insists. “It’s nothing. Keep going. I want to hear more.”

I glance over and see her eyes are sparkling, excited to see how I’ve spun this tale so a seven-year-old girl can understand.

I cut down the violence a bit and leave out some details, but it’s basically the same story. Instead of a guy getting stabbed, he hits his head really bad. Kyrie’s never questioned the logistics of the story; she just enjoys it.

Before I know it, she’s fast asleep, a little smile on her face, and we’re sneaking out of the room quietly so we don’t wake her.

“She thinks they’re covered in grease?” Dory falls into quiet laughter when we close the bedroom door.

“Well, I mean, theyarethe greasers. It’s totally plausible.”

Shaking her head, she smiles up at me. “I love that you didn’t really mince words with most of the story. I think it’s going to make her more compassionate the older she gets, not one to judge people too quickly.”

I nod. “That was kind of my point. Plus, it was the only story I know well enough to tell.”

“I love that your favorite book is my favorite book.”

She’s stepped closer to me, and I don’t even know if she realizes it.

Just like I don’t think I realize I’ve reached for her until I feel her soft skin beneath my fingertips.

“Porter…”

It’s whispered, but I hear the begging.

I need you.

Without overthinking it—because we don’t do that—I pull her down the hall and into the guest bathroom, slamming the door closed and locking it.

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