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To read Part I of this collab between Eric Mochnacz & Jillian Conochan, CLICK HERE.
Shan stretched out one of his long limbs, sending an articulated manikin tumbling to the floor. “Sorry,” he murmured, unsure if directed at the wooden figurine or to Clarissa, one of his few Reg-unadjacent friends in London, who kindly took him in as Shan and Reg were “figuring things out.”
Shan folded the blanket and placed it on the back of the couch. He posed the little art form with its arms in an exaggerated shrug, a gesture that evinced his current mindset.
Clarissa emerged from the bathroom, scrunching her hair in a towel. “Are you going into the office today, luv?”
“Yes. I’ll be ready in 20 minutes if you want to walk together.” The fine arts academy where Clarissa was working towards her Master’s was just a block away from Shan’s office.
“Not if you don’t stop staring at your iPhone you won’t be.”
“What? Oh. Yes, okay you’re right.” Shan set his anxiety rectangle facedown on the coffee table and began the act of Dressing Discreetly in the Loose Company of a Thoroughly Platonic Friend, who was sympathetic enough to share her 600 square-foot flat, no notice, with a friend indeed.
What Shan did not tell his dear friend, Clarissa Marie Fremont of the Kensington Fremonts, was that he had no intention of going into the office.
Yes, he had walked with her, messenger bag slung over his shoulder, and made up a Twitter troll catastrophe that he was heading in to handle. But what he actually did was buy both of them huge coffees, and then head off to Moira’s office for an emergency session.
Last night, while Clarissa had fretted over reheating a curry and making a cocktail for Shan after his unexpected appearance on her doorstep, Shan escaped into the bathroom, calling Moira in hushed whispers, practically begging she fit him in.
In her calm, unbothered voice, which almost drove Shan over the edge, because he wanted his sweet, elderly Irish therapist to scream at him for disturbing her nightly tea and Netflix—Shannon, so pleasant to hear from you. My 9 A.M. patient cancelled due to a personal matter—would meeting at that time be conducive to your schedule?
He quickly responded with a “Yes, thank you, see you then,” proceeded to text his boss, Ling, that he wouldn’t be coming in tomorrow due to a migraine, and chugged the Moscow Mule that Clarissa had left for him on the coffee table.
Clarissa tried to distract Shan with mule after mule.
He insisted they watch the MCU movies in chronological order, summarily ignoring texts from Reg and Owen, the choice to do so stinging on different frequencies for each of them.
So, here he was, clutching his coffee, sipping at appropriate intervals while maundering about Owen and Reg and their dynamic and work and stress and sex and love and relationships and seriously, what would it take for Millcent to just stop always taking the last fucking salt bagel?
“Shannon, I think at this point, you need to buy your own bagel before going into work. I mean, really, Millicent seems like a bit of a tosser, if we’re being honest. But, let’s talk about Reg. You were hoping he ended things after confronting you about your relationship with Owen?”
Okay, Moira, so we’re doing it like this?
“Well, yes.” God, how could two words come out sounding so fucking petulant?
“And what do you want the outcome to be?”
Shan was silent.
And then, he started to cry. Weep uncontrollably. Moira was unfazed.
For the first time since he had moved to London, this was the first time anyone had asked him what HE wanted.
It was just easier to follow Reg’s lead. He knew the layout of London… though Shan successfully navigated NYC when he attended The New School. He knew the rules of cricket… though Shan made the all-district baseball team as a senior. He knew which market sold the freshest flowers AND which would return the highest yield; he had the built-in social network; he OWNED A FLAT… rebuttal; rebuttal; REBUTTAL.
Shannon no longer knew what he wanted.
Moira recognized exactly what was happening before her. Relationship disintegrations of this sort were one of the most common reasons a person might seek out therapy; today represented a breakthrough. She allowed Shan several minutes to experience his emotions and rummaged around her desk for a small workbook.
She sat back down to face Shan. His doleful eyes met hers.
“We have thirty more minutes together, Shannon,” Moira stated, pragmatically though not without compassion. “I am going to give you three options: We can continue our session with me asking questions. Or, you can just talk and I’ll listen. Or, we can just sit here together.”
The choice felt grandiose. “I guess—I mean, I—I want to,” he stuttered; a car trying to start on a cold winter morning. He took a long pull from his coffee, opened his mouth to try again, then resigned himself to sitting in silence with his thoughts. Moira knew this was the best thing for Shan right now, but that he would have to put in work to reestablish himself as an individual capable of making decisions for himself.
And not just throw himself into a carefree fling with Owen, a voice reminded her from a remote corner of her brain. It was the easiest, most common course of action for her quarterlife clients.
“Shannon dear. It’s nearly ten. Can I send you on your way with a bit of an assignment?”
She presented him with the discrete book. It was cute, the small thing, with ornate Rococo swirls decorating the four corners and a crest with a yew tree and a genie’s lamp, among other intricacies, printed in the middle. She leafed through its pages so Shan could see the prompts inside.
“Over the course of our next few appointments, I would like for you to please do some soul-searching. This can be your guidebook, if you like, or you can journal if that comes more naturally.”
Shan accepted the book as she lowered her voice as if sharing a secret. “I’m proud of you.”
—
The cool early summer breeze flitted through Moira’s office window, fluttering her crimson hair and carrying the delicious odor of freshly fried chips.
The signs of summer led to a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
She had always loved the transition of the seasons, especially from spring to summer. As an empath, she often found herself bogged down in the morass of her client’s problems on her commute home. But, in the summer, she walked home, and the warm sun made it easier for her to shrug off their problems the minute she stepped onto the street and into the fresh air. In the winter, after her last patient of the day, she always headed directly home. When the temperature soared, she always stopped for an outdoor cappuccino to write in her journal. On Fridays, she would treat herself to a pint or two for a job well done.
She was wrapping up her patient notes to do just that, head to Conochan’s and nurse a Bulmer’s while she basked in the sunlight and worked on her next novel. As she was tidying up her desk and placing all her items in the appropriate compartments in her bag (her friends would often describe her as fastidious), her email pinged.
“Thank you, from Shan.”
The small smile turned into a toothy grin.
She took a quick look at the time in the toolbar and figured this couldn’t wait until Monday. Moira NEVER checked her work email on weekends due to self-care; work-life balance and all that.
She had a polite away message automatically activated every Friday at 5 o’clock on the dot informing prospective patients to fill out the form on her website (although she was rather booked at the current moment, but would be happy to guide them on the therapeutic journey if the schedules worked), her current patients that she was looking forward to seeing them next week, and anyone in crisis should follow the emergency instructions they reviewed at their first session together.
She took a deep breath and clicked “open.” She hadn’t seen Shannon since early April, when the journaling had truly let him discover some truths about himself (and his relationships with Reg and Owen) that he hadn’t expected.
Dear Moira,
I hope you don’t mind me reaching out over email.
I was going to spend at least an hour agonizing over if this was “appropriate,” but as you often reminded me— “Do not overthink, just do.” So that’s what I did.
And I often wrote in my journal, “Tell people how you feel. When you are angry. When you need to establish boundaries. When you are grateful.”
So, I am grateful for you.
We haven’t seen each other in quite some time, but I was walking home from the flower market last week (I have begun buying myself fresh flowers every week for my new apartment… well, my flat) and I think I saw you enjoying a pint with a friend. I thought it would be inappropriate to come over and didn’t want to interrupt.
So, this is the first free moment I’ve had to sit down at my computer long enough to write an email. Soon after I permanently moved out of Reg’s, I realized how much I held back at work because of all of Orville and Marie’s comments, so I marched into my boss’s office and asked for more money. She promoted me on the spot. It’s actually interesting, for people have such disdain for social media, Orville and Marie are sure on it a lot. They congratulated me on my promotion when I updated LinkedIn, and I suspect they are social media stalking me on Reg’s behalf—he blocked me—but for some voyeuristic reason, they have not.
Owen and I speak often. We’re still figuring out the nature of our relationship. We’ve met for a coffee a few times and have gone to dinner on occasion. The conversation just flows naturally—I truly feel comfortable with him. He makes me laugh. We read the same type of books. There is zero pressure, which is nice. And I’m sure you’d be proud—and as crazy as this is to put over email—we haven’t even had SEX! Yes, go ahead, giggle like a schoolgirl, you’re no longer my therapist—so no need to keep a poker face or nod your head in understanding.
Moira let out a whooping laugh. Could it be? Dear Shannon was genuinely… happy? He had always come into his sessions… tense. The first time she made a small joke during a session, Shan had practically recoiled. It was like he was afraid of smiling. As they had worked through journaling, his shoulders lowered a bit and he began sprinkling sarcasm and humor into their weekly discussions. Moira had seen a young, scared boy blossom into a man who was healing and coming into his own in a world he hadn’t had the freedom to experience.
So, I’m not necessarily sure you think of former clients a lot, but I do think about you and wanted to check in and let you know how well I’m doing.
Oh, and you’ll just love this. The other day, I was standing in the office kitchenette and saw Millicent huffing her way to the bagel bag. Before she could even stick her grubby little fingers in, I looked her straight in the eye and said, “Millicent, the salt bagel is mine. You are going to have to settle for pumpernickel today.”
It was amazing!
With heartfelt gratitude,
Shannon
P.S. – Perhaps next time I see you enjoying a pint, I’ll come and say “hello.”
Moira saw the “away” icon on her mail toolbar, pulled the string on the banker’s lamp on her desk, closed her laptop… and decided she would treat herself to TWO pints tonight.
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