Bubba stepped in and organized my dad’s exercise regime and my mother decided she needed to get on board as well. Now my parents both worked out at the gym three days a week, swam, and took neighborhood walks in the evenings. And if that doesn’t sound like a quantum shift in the universe, believe me, it was.
As we continued down the trail, my dad walked with Bubba. “So, I’ve been having this pain in the back of my shoulder…” He swung his arm and kneaded the location with his other hand.
“Yeah? Lemma see.” Bubba stopped to feel around my dad’s shoulder, and I gave him a grateful look as my mom and I passed by, continuing down the trail.
She smiled. “Bubba’s gaining so much confidence as a physical therapist.”
“He’s not a physical therapist yet,” I pointed out.
“That’s a technicality. He was accepted into the program. Besides, he knows what he’s doing from all those years of training.”
Bubba had, indeed, been accepted into the Doctor of Physical Therapy program at Madison, which he’d begin this next fall while I started my second year of graduate school in Genetics. His senior year classes were challenging, but I was proud of him for pushing through with dogged persistence. I’d helped him where I could—because personal training doesn’t just go one way.
“He’s excited to start,” I said. “In the fall, he’ll take classes that are actually about physical therapy. And start interning at a clinic, working with patients. That’ll be his strong suit.”
“And he’s not playing football next year, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Good. Then he’ll have more time for his studies.”
Of course, my mother would think that. But she was right. Bubba had almost quit football last fall because his classes were initially overwhelming. But he decided to stay on the Badgers team for Jesse’s sake. Jesse Knox had come out as gay around the same time Bubba had. Only Jesse was a star—the Badger’s first-string running back—and so he’d gotten the lion’s share of scrutiny, support, and, sadly, harassment.
I’d never forget the day last September when a group of three offensive linemen from a rival team ganged up to tackle Jesse. Bubba had fortunately been on the field that day. He’d run over and ripped into those jerks like a mama bear. He’d grabbed one guy who was punching Jesse in the ribs while on top of him, picked him clear up off the ground, and threw him off. It was like one of those adrenaline-fueled feats of strength that was crazy impressive since the guy was as big as a car. The video clip had gone viral, especially once the news caught on that it was the two gay Badgers players involved.
That act had earned Bubba a penalty, but the other team’s guys had gotten suspended and the Badgers coach and team had stood behind Bubba. Funny, but after that, Jesse Knox was hardly ever fouled. And Jesse and Bubba become fan favorites—at least among the younger Badger devotees.
“What are you chuckling about?” my mother asked, panting a little at the uphill climb.
“I was thinking about that video clip of Bubba picking up the Wolverines player.”
“Ah, yes. Your father retweeted that.”
“He did?” I gasped.
She shrugged. “It got more views than any of his tweets about genetics, sadly.”
That made me laugh out loud.
“What about you?” she asked. “Still enjoying being a TA?”
I shrugged. “I like prepping class material, grading, and working in the student labs. But I hate lecturing. Professor Weinstein has gotten quite lazy about ditching class and making me teach. It happens at least once a week.”
“That means he trusts you. Plus, it’s good experience,” my mother insisted.
“Not particularly since I don’t intend to ever teach.” I didn’t have it in me. That much was obvious to me after observing how good Bubba was at it—how patient. My future would involve long hours of quiet research, and I was perfectly content with that.
We all came back puffing from the hike, except for Bubba, of course, who was barely breathing hard. We went to a favorite restaurant of Bubba’s and mine that served healthy Mexican. As we sat there eating corn tortillas with salsa in place of the chips, as Bubba had taught us, my phone rang.
I looked at it and smiled. Andy Benson-Merkofsky, the newest member of Bubba’s family. “Excuse me a second. It’s my culinary instructor.”
Bubba laughed and my parents looked at each other as I clicked the phone. “Hi, Andy.”
“Hi, Sean. I wanted to confirm next weekend before I started buying ingredients.”
“We’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it. What shall we bring?”
“Tell Bubba he’s in charge of a healthy dessert.”
“Now there’s an oxymoron. I’ll attempt to steer him toward something edible.”
He gave that melodious laugh that was so like the rest of him and so different from the tough, gruff man he’d married. “Can’t wait to see you both. Bye.”
I hung up, smiling.
Bubba said, “What are you and Andy cooking up?”
“Just confirming for next weekend. I told him we’d bring a dozen chocolate eclairs.”
Bubba looked horrified, which made me crack up and my parents too. Bubba chuckled when he realized I was having him on.
He slung an arm around my neck and tickled me. “I’ll chocolate éclair you!” he growled.
Which sounded fun, actually. I made a mental note to add it to my list. We’d worked through essentially an entire notebook by now, but I always had my ears open for new ideas.
My parents weren’t the only ones who’d become a fixture in our combined lives. Andy, the man John Merkofsky loved and married quietly, as was his way, was as charming and social as John was taciturn. He was a master cook and had taken it on himself to teach Bubba and me the basics of food survival, so we didn’t have to live on ramen and microwave potatoes. Next weekend, he was giving us a class in stir fry as an excuse to get everybody together for dinner. Bubba and his dad were still uneasy around each other, and maybe always would be, but Andy was so laid back and comfortable with all of us, he helped bridge the gap.
We’d become so family oriented, Bubba had even reached out to his mother and invited her to visit sometime. That, of course, would require an advanced degree in familial relations, but compared to the near miracles we’d seen already in the parental area, anything was possible.
After lunch, we drove back to my parents’ hotel, where we’d left our car. As we said goodbye, they invited us to come to Chicago for the Fourth of July, and we promised we would. Then we drove home to our apartment.
Our apartment. Those sweet words were still a novelty. During the fall semester, Bubba had lived at the ALA house. But the lure of a queen-sized bed and me had been great, so he’d spent more and more time at my place. We finally admitted we lived together; he’d given up his room at the frat house to an ecstatic sophomore ALA, and we’d saved money and frustration by sleeping every night in each other’s arms. I loved the arrangement so much, I didn’t even object to the weight rack on one wall of our small living room.
As we ditched our hiking clothes, Bubba said, “Pretty action-packed day, but I wouldn’t miss tonight for the world.”