Dylan reaped the benefits of my irritation—jealousy, as he called it—because when we got back to our hotel room, I said, “You know, if you really loved me, I’d have a ring on my finger right now.” An hour later, we were married by an Elvis minister in a chapel off the Strip, with matching smiley-face tattoos on our ring fingers. Dylan also got my name tattooed over his heart, the same place I rest my hand before each performance. He didn’t hesitate. It was like he’d just been patiently waiting for me to catch up. Like he always does.
