“I don’t want you to be married to a workaholic who has to travel all the time and is stressed out of his head. I don’t want you to have to remind your husband not to drink too much or stop being rude to people because he’s too busy to care. I don’t want you to have to remind your husband that he’s neglecting you.”
“Your bottle of wine.” The waiter appears out of nowhere. He opens it and pours us both a glass.
“Thank you,” I reply. My eyes go back to meet Jameson’s.
The waiter leaves us alone.
“I don’t want you to come second to Miles Media. I don’t want you to ever come second to anything.”
“But—”
“Let me finish, please,” he demands.
I sit back in my chair, annoyed that he wants to speak first.
“The thing is, if you’re with me—married to me—your life is going to be all those thing
