Brian snorted. “We need a house if we’re going to be together in the same building as your books.”
“Not if we clean out your record collection. No one listens to vinyl anymore anyway.”
“You philistine.” Then Brian began our traditional spiral of good-byes. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too. I gotta go.”
“I know, I know. Go get a sandwich. Come home this weekend?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
It took me a minute to figure out what he was waiting for. “And next time you can be the warlord.”
In the face of everything else, my husband’s phone call had buoyed me, distracted me so that I hadn’t even thought to tell him about this morning. Never mind; I’d tell him next time we spoke. I slapped together a peanut butter sandwich, stuck it in my mouth, and headed down to the dorm’s laundry room with my basket. As much as I was grateful for the opportunity to rent the dorm space for the crew for the duration of the dig, hot showers and cold beer aside, I was a hundred times more grateful to be able to wash my field clothes on a daily basis. I may be a slob, but mine is a hygienic sort of clutter.
Not wanting to put the sandwich down on any of the gritty surfaces of the other washers, I held it in one hand while I loaded the washer with the other. I had just slapped the coin tray with my six quarters into the machine when my crew chief, Neal Fenn, came in with a duffel bag full of his own laundry.
One eye on the rising water in my tub, I nodded to him. “Hey.”