@max_the_ripper

"You wanted to talk to me," I say first, folding my hands and resting them on the cool wood of the kitchen table.

Ronnie grabs a chair and pulls it closer to mine, leaving the corner of the table between us, as if sensing I need the extra space. Over his shoulder, I can see Nason sitting on his couch, his attention devoted to the tiny puppy curled up on the leg of his jeans. He meets my eyes for a moment, holding my gaze steadily with those bluish gray eyes, before turning his attention back to his puppy, but I understand his unspoken threat. It's kind of strange for me to be sitting in the house of the man who replaced me as Ronnie's best friend and confidant, trying to make amends with a person who once said he hated me.

"How are you doing?" Ronnie asks, touching my arm, and I notice the way his fingers tremble against my skin. "Derek showed me the video of you passing out onstage in Jersey. Are you okay?"

My eyebrows raise, and I push my glasses up my nose as I try to find the words to say to him. "It's not the first time shit like that happened to me, so why is this time different than all the others?"

He runs his free hand through his hair and drops the one touching my arm, his face flushing a deep crimson. Sighing, he stands and heads across the room, jogging up the stairs until I'm left alone downstairs with Nason, which is awkward since he hates me.

"Well, that was stupid," Nason says.

I glance up to see him watching me from the couch, his eyebrows arched and his expression tight. "What was stupid?"

"Him just running upstairs to get his notebook without telling you." Nason shakes his head and sighs. "Ronnie's awkward around you, yeah, but he needs to learn. . . He went upstairs. He'll be back."

As soon as he finishes his sentence, Ronnie appears with a battered composition notebook in hand, biting his lip as he sits down. He sits the notebook in front of me and flips open the cover, revealing a single line printed on the first page in his all too familiar handwriting.



"What is this?" I demand, looking up at Ronnie.

He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. "It's, like, a really long letter I wrote when I was in prison."

I nod and turn the page.



1. I need you.

2. I'm sorry.

3. You look better with curls.

4. I would never hurt you.

5. You're my best friend.

6. Stop talking about me.

7. All I think about is you.

8. I hate you for ruining me.

9. You're beautiful.

10. I love you.

"Ronnie, this isn't right," I whisper, pushing the notebook away as the realization of what I'm reading sinks in. "Look, all that fighting was bullshit. Please. . . I can't read this."

"Read it for me," he says, turning the page.

Dear Max,

It's been too long since we've talked, but even I know you aren't seeing this until I can talk to you in person. I said a lot of shit when I got put away, and your probably won't believe me when I tell you I'm sorry for all of it. You're the only thing keeping me going in this place. I think about you every day. Did you know that? I make Nason play your interviews to me over the phone so I can hear your voice. I'd die if I couldn't.

I love you, Max.

"Why are you showing me this?" I whisper, ducking my head as Ronnie turns another page.

His hands are shaking as he cradles my face, forcing me to look into his eyes, to see the faint charcoal-tinted tears rolling down his cheeks. "Because I need you to understand, and this is the only way. Please don't stop reading, not now. You need to know."

Baby,

Don't be mad at me anymore, don't think I don't miss you when you're all I want to remember about my past.

"Just stop it!" I scream, jerking away from him and shoving the notebook off the table. "You have no right."

Ronnie sobs helplessly as he grabs my shoulders, gasping for air as he doubles over, choking. Nason places his puppy in a basket between the couch and the chair before stepping into the kitchen, peeling Ronnie's fingers off of me and pulling him to his feet.

"You should go," he says, lifting Ronnie off of the floor and carrying him toward the stairs. "He needs to rest. And take the notebook."

"I don't want-" I say.

He fixes me with a fierce glare, and I stop talking. "Take it."

I bend down and pick up the notebook, holding it gingerly as I stand and head outside to my car. How many nights did he spend writing me these little notes, how many hours did he spend thinking about me when he was locked up and away from everyone in his life?

"Why did you have to wait until now?" I murmur, sitting the notebook in the passenger seat.

I stare at Nason's house silently for a moment before turning the key in the ignition and backing out of the driveway. He waited until I started falling apart. He waited. . .

He expected me to wait for him, and I can't go out of my way to do that anymore.

Why did he wait?

My vision starts to blue, my coordination fading as the pills I took earlier begin to kick in. I hit the brakes and reach for the notebook, hugging it to my chest as my thoughts mesh and tangle.

I do love you, Ronald Joseph Radke.

But you waited too late. . .