Elliot ditched his jock reputation after high school. He happily traded his cleats and shoulder pads for college cafeteria food and seminars notes. Now, without the distraction of football, he has managed to find success at the University of Minneso...
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"We missed you at dinner. You would've loved it," Elliot's mom said over the phone. "Chef MJ made those little truffles - your favorite. Do you want her to pack up a few and send them to you?"
"No. That's okay," Elliot said, fiddling with a dirty oven mitt. The smell of Toll House instant-cookies still hung in the kitchen. "I'm sure MJ is busy enough."
"Alright," his mother replied. "How're you?"
"I'm good. Tired, though," Elliot said. "I think I'll go to bed soon. It's been a long day."
"Don't forget to use your eye cream. Premature aging is preventable," she reminded him. "How about I call you tomorrow?"
"Call me on this number," Elliot told her. "My phone doesn't have service out here. And there's no Wi-Fi. I haven't checked my texts in days."
"Lord," his mother squawked. "That sounds like one of your father's charity retreats."
"Merry Christmas, darling. Send my regards to the Thompsons."
Elliot ended the call.
He had extended the antenna when he dialed, since it was one of those ugly white phones from the 1990s. He pushed in the long rod, feeling like a side character in the movie Clueless. Everything in Renville seemed to be a couple decades behind. Was that why Pierce hadn't come out yet?
