Sam gave a subtle nod. “Understood.”
“It’s about Wilbert. And me.” The name caught in the back of his throat, but he forced it out, feeling like a dam giving way by degrees. “I don’t talk about him much. Not with people who didn’t know us back then.”
Sam shifted but stayed quiet, as if he were waiting for more. There was no judgment on his face. Just open air between them and the soft scent of pine.
“Wilbert and I... we tried. Once. Years ago. Before he met Danny.”
He wasn’t sure what he expected. Maybe surprise or curiosity.
But Sam didn’t blink. Just observed him with that same steady gaze.
“We didn’t work. Not like that anyway. Maybe because we were friends first. Or maybe we were too similar in the wrong ways.” He leaned forward resting his elbows on his thighs and stared at his hands. Scoffed. “We were too dominant and although we tried, neither one of us found the space inside to soften.”
He rubbed his hands. They were capable hands that could hold a scalpel or a sobbing boy.
“We had chemistry. Friendship. But not compatibility.”
“You stayed friends?”
Easton nodded. “He was family. More than that. He was… he knew me better than anyone. Still does, in some ways.”
He let out a breath. “I was there when he met Danny. Some volunteer event. Fundraiser, I think. Wilbert and I were both manning a booth. Danny showed up in a pink T-shirt and rainbow suspenders with a tray of cookies. Everything bright and sparkling and he had the brightest damn smile. Wilbert froze. Just froze mid-sentence and stared at him like he’d been shot.”
A small smile tugged at Easton’s lips.
“I nudged him and told him, ‘You’re staring.’ He just whispered, ‘He looks like rainbows and happy endings.’”
Easton paused and exhaled. “He offered Danny a soda. Didn’t even ask his name. Just offered a, ‘Here, you look thirsty’. And that was it. They were inseparable. I think Danny moved in three weeks later.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“Jealous.” The word came out faster than he meant it to.
He blinked and considered. “NotofWilbert,” he contemplated. “But of what they had. That connection. The kind you don’t get to build. It just happens. And when you see it in other people… it makes you realize how empty your own table is.”
He fell quiet again.
“I didn’t realize how lonely I was until I saw how not-lonely Wilbert was,” he said softly. “And I never blamed Danny. But I used the fact that they were together to keep my distance. Like it gave me permission not to feel.”
Sam shifted and leaned forward. “And now?”
Easton looked up. “Now Wilbert’s gone. And I’m the one still standing. I keep asking myself if helping Danny heal is honoring Wilbert’s memory or replacing him.”
A long pause followed. Sam finally broke it. “That sounds more like guilt than clarity.”
Easton shrugged. “Probably.”
Sam studied him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. “Can I offer you a thought I often share with clients wrestling with this exact tension?”
Easton gave a faint nod.
“There’s a difference between chasing dopamine and nurturing serotonin.” Sam shifted and rested one ankle on the opposite knee. “Dopamine is a spike. It’s the high you get from winning something, from sex, from taking a risk. It’s fast and flashy. With the addictive taste of instant gratification but also fleeting.”
Easton didn’t move but cocked his head and listened.
“Serotonin, though, that’s… slower. It’s what settles into your bones when you feel safe. When you’re held. When someone says, ‘I see you, and you’re enough’. It doesn’t rush in. It gradually builds and when it’s there, it sustains.” Sam’s voice gentled. “Are you chasing a thrill, Easton, and looking for a replacement or a high? Or are you sitting in front of me because you want peace? Because you want to show up for someone and maybe let someone show up for you.”
The words drove home like arrows in a bullseye.
