Rafe cameron had never been good at loving people.

Not his dad, who only ever saw him as a disappointment. Not Sarah, who left him for the Pogues. Not even himself, because if he did, he wouldn’t be like this—high out of his mind, knocking on Barry’s busted up trailer at three in the morning.

Barry swung the door open, already knowing who it was. His eyes were bloodshot, but he looked more awake than Rafe felt. “country club” His tone was sharp, unimpressed. “You got my money this time, or are we playing ‘spot the difference’ again?”

Rafe sucked his teeth and stepped inside without an invitation. The air was thick with the stench of weed and stale beer.

He pulled out a crumpled wad of cash from his hoodie pocket and tossed it onto the table. Barry counted it with the slow, deliberate precision that always made Rafe’s nerves prickle.

“This’ll do,” Barry finally said, shoving a small baggie into Rafe’s hand. “Try not to kill yourself with it, huh?”

Rafe walked away

By the time he stumbled into his truck, he was already on the verge of another high. His head buzzed, thoughts tangled up like wires, but there was one thing cutting through the haze her.

John B’s little sister. His girl. The only person in the world who could get under his skin and still make him want to be better, even when he failed miserably.

she is sitting on the porch

“Where were you?” Her voice was steady, but he could tell she was tired of this. Tired of him.

Rafe scoffed, lighting a cigarette. “Don’t start.”

She shook her head, pushing off the porch. “You’re high.”

“So?” He exhaled a cloud of smoke, barely meeting her eyes.

She stepped closer, her gaze searching his face for something, some version of Rafe that wasn’t so far gone. “You said you were done.”

His voice was sharp now, irritation creeping in. “You think you can fix me?”

she reached for him, her fingers curling around his wrist. “I love you.”

It should’ve been enough.

But addiction was a bitch, and Rafe had never was good at loving people the way they deserved.