Je t'aime, tu sais?

"Can I ask you something?" Jamie asked, walking into the kitchen. Patrice looked up innocently from his frying pan of eggs.
"Shoot," he said. "What's up?"
She pulled her hair out of a towel and brushed it to the side, rubbing out as much of the water as she could.
"It's about last night," she said, kind of bashfully.
"Yeah?" He asked, his voice rising in pitch. He turned the gas burner down, placed a lid on the frying pan and circled around the island. He leaned back on the granite once he was in front of her. His legs looked lean in his suit pants from last night. After the game he had shown up in a complete three piece suit, but this morning, after spending the night in a pair of too-short, borrowed-from-Jamie Harvard sweatpants, he wore just his dress socks, dress pants and his thin, white undershirt Jamie absolutely adored.
She caught herself tracing his stomach with her pointer and middle finger absent mindedly, feeling the soft fabric up against his hard skin and remembering their intimacy last night with a grin. She caught him looking at her, smirking a bit.
"Yeah, uhm," she started again, looking down at the towel in her hands, biting her lip and blushing. She gave a small laugh. "I wanted to apologize if I was... moving too fast; if I made you uncomfortable," she tried to explain with feeble hand gestures.
"Wh-no, no. Jamie, no. It's not about that--I'm fine," he stressed the last word. He reached forward and gently took her elbows in his strong hands. "I adore spending time with you, intimate or not--"
"--I know, I know, it's just..." She didn't know how to ask him why he didn't want to sleep with her. He tried to explain it last night, but she wasn't sure if she understood him entirely. He had said that he didn't intend to sleep with anyone who he wasn't in some kind of relationship or commitment with yet. She knew they weren't official, but weren't they kind of taken, to some degree? Even though they were recent friends, she didn't think Patrice would be a man to undergo an open relationship... Yet, she couldn't find a way to ask him what he meant without it sounding like she was asking him to be in a committed relationship with her. Although she was fairly sure that's what she wanted, she didn't want to pressure him into it, either. It was a weird, sticky situation.
"Just what?" He urged in French.
"It's just... Do you want our relationship, or, whatever we have now, to be more open?" She tried. He looked at her with puzzlement. "Like, we don't have to be committed..." Maybe he wouldn't sleep with her because he did want to be available elsewhere?
That logic was stupid.
Not Patrice.
She was trying to close him out and she could tell. Why did she always do this? She was failing to communicate with him appropriately and it was killing her.
She was failing miserably.
Now she was just going to sound like she had no self-confidence. She did; she totally had some self-confidence. But, if she had too much self-confidence, she was going to sound sex crazed. Ugh, why are you so stupid sometimes, Ph.d.? She asked herself.
"You think we haven't slept together because I don't want commitment?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Maybe?" She asked, laughing, embarrassed. She put a hand to her forehead and laughed for lack of anything else to do. She was sweating already, and her dark, wet hair covered half her face. She tried to rake her hand through it to even out the wetness.
"Jamie, look at my profession," he said, gesturing to himself with open arms. "Everything I do is for the betterment of the organization," he laughed, referring to the Bruins. "I choose my food based on what is going to help me help my team. I sleep because it helps the team. I mean, the way I shower is to help me help the team; everything. I am a very committed man." He smiled and shook his head. He looked down and sighed. He ran a hand through his thick hair as he looked up but not at her.
"I'm sorry," he said. Meeting her eyes and hooking a hand around her waist. "I didn't mean to laugh and I know I probably don't make any sense. None of this is coming out the way I want it to..." He held her waist with both hands as she leaned to him.
"Trust me, I feel ya," she laughed.
She was sure to maintain eye contact with him as he pulled his lips to the side a bit, in a small smile. "I'm not afraid of commitment. I'm not trying to keep myself open. Like I said last night, James, I want to spend every minute with you; I'm not lying," as he said her nickname, he cupped her cheek and stroked it with his thumb. "I just... I don't know how to go about... initiating it..." He finally looked down, flushing a bit in his cheeks. "And I want you to know I'm serious about you, about us, about whatever we have; I'm not in it for the bed-time."
He leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to hers.
What was "it"? she couldn't help but wonder. Physical intimacy? They always seemed to glide right into that... was he referring to a relationship? Did he not know how to make her his girlfriend?
"Yeah?" She asked, smiling mischievously and letting him kiss her again. She didn't want to complicate the situation further, or make it more awkward with more complex explaining of complex emotions.
"Yeah," he breathed.
And they kissed sweetly again.
"Well, in that case..." she said, wrapping her arms around his neck as his found their way around her waist. "I have something else I'd like to ask you; are you free tomorrow night?"

The next day, Patrice sat dressed with his black tuxedo jacket folded neatly next to him on his plush, navy colored bed. He had been dressed and ready a half an hour early, just in case. He was nervous; his stomach was upset and hungry, but he couldn't be bothered to nourish it, assuming there would be food at the event within an hour or two.
He was anxious to meet some of the people Jamie worked with tonight. Harvard was hosting a black tie cocktail night, and Jamie had been invited by her advisor, a woman she had come to be very close with over the past year. The event was in honor of her advisor, named Sabrina, and she was receiving some kind of math award--Patrice couldn't remember the name of it--but it was probably something like the Nobel Peace Prize or something.
He scoffed and closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead with the pads of his fingers, distressed.
He was going to look like a goddamned meat head tonight, following his beautiful, gifted, smart... what? His extremely intelligent and diligent girlfriend? His beautiful girlfriend? Yeah right, man, she's not your girlfriend, his mind tortured him.
And you're just some dumb hockey player.
He lifted both his hands to hold his sullen head up, propped up by his elbows on his knees. Sometimes his bouts of self-consciousness were lethal.
He pressed his fingers into his closed eyes and audibly expressed his frustration and anxiety by sucking in a deep breath through his teeth.
He placed his palms on his knees and pushed himself up, deciding to wash his face one last time and wolf down a banana.

She hadn't seen Patrice since he had left for practice the day before, after their awkward talk in the morning but wonderful night together. However, it wasn't why she was reclined on the green velvet couch, a wrist upturned and pressed on her forehead, a glass of white wine held by the stem in the other hand, resting gently on the hem of her dress that cascaded down her thighs and crumpled peacefully where her legs met her hips, and resting peacefully against her leg. Her sheer black tights provided just enough friction to where she needn't worry about balancing the glass between her legs.
Her legs were bent at the knees, her shoes discarded on the hard wood floor below and her toes pressed up against the other arm of the couch.
She had been dressed for the black tie event early solely for the purpose of enjoying a heavy glass of wine to calm her frustrations. She had intended for tonight to be a low-stress, enjoyable night where Patrice could meet a few people close to her in her line of work, and, she could show him off a bit, too.
Surprisingly, it wasn't her thesis or her classes or lectures that called for such a dramatic pose and a big glass of wine.
It was her father.
She hadn't even spoken to him, but he was already stressing her out.
An hour or so earlier, Jamie had been walking back from a lecture she had delivered without flaw on the phone with her mother.
"You didn't tell us you were seeing someone," her mother had said, somewhat grimly. Jamie had always been on fairly good terms with her parents, so she knew how to read her mother's voice. She knew she had been offended she hadn't shared the news, but Jamie rolled her eyes, still a bit impatient with her parents for being hurt when she kept her private life private.
"Mom, I'm twenty-three, ought I inform you of the boys I choose to see?"
"Well, this one is hardly a boy!" She barked, a bit in laughter, a bit still hurt Jamie had withheld such information.
"Mom," she groaned, feeling like a child again.
"Your father's displeased."
"Displeased? How?" Jamie demanded in French.
"Why do you hide such things from us, mi amor?"
"Mom, because it's private," Jamie said into the phone in a hushed whisper.
"The whole city of Boston must know by now! And what, we're the last ones to find out? Your own parents!"
"The whole city does not know!" Jamie protested, actually taking a second to look around at random pedestrians. No one's going to recognize you, don't be stupid and self-centered, she scolded herself. "Wait, how do you two know?"
"He's been in the news; he's just from Ancienne-Lorette. He's coming to Quebec City for a big sports interview in a week or two. Your father saw it over breakfast this morning. They showed a clip of you two holding hands and skating at the Winter Classic."
Jamie groaned, "really?"
"Oui. He's quite good looking though, really Jamie," she said, approvingly.
She sighed and pulled her hair back, lifting her glass of wine to her lips with her other hand. She hadn't spoken with her father yet, but she knew he would be short and distant, hurt he hadn't informed him of her progressing love life, and probably anxious it was with someone a bit famous.
To be honest, it made her anxious, too.

Patrice stood in front of his sink and looked down at his thick fingers, his dull nails, and the teal, square piece of foil he held between his thumb and his pointer finger.
He heaved a sigh, closing his eyes and shaking his head. When he opened them, he let his hand holding the condom fall to rest on the edge of the white porcelain sink and he looked at himself in the mirror.
He was doubting himself again; over-thinking everything again and then scolding himself again.
His stomach growled with hunger, upset with him for forgetting he promised himself a banana twenty minutes ago.
With his middle and pointer finger he flicked the condom into the sink, outstretching a leg behind him and leaning forward, placing his forehead on the tops of his hands on the countertop.
"This is stupid," he breathed aloud, to himself, eyes closed.
It felt cliche, but he found himself thinking about how love was supposed to be easy, supposed to be seamless; was he in love with this girl if all he ever did was beat himself up over doing things right with her? Were you allowed to be in love with someone you weren't dating?
He pulled his head up and rested his chin on his hands. He looked at himself gloomily in the mirror, and then tried to read his watch from such a close proximity, but to no avail. The act made him chuckle a bit, and he straightened up to read the time properly.
In a moment of non-anxiety driven, over-thinking weakness, he grabbed the condom out of the sink and wedged it into his wallet.
Just in case.

She sighed and looked at her watch. He should be here within a half hour, she reasoned with herself, deciding on whether or not she wanted to touch up her make up or wait for him.
As if on queue, there was a soft knock at her door and before she could answer the knob turned and she heard Patrice's voice.
"May I?"
"You may," she called back, immediately smiling. His head entered first, shortly followed by his shoulder and a foot. He stepped into the room backward and shut the door, turning around his a bunch of flowers and a cheeky grin.
"Hello," he smiled.
"Hi," she laughed, sitting up and moving to only take up half of the couch. His face fell immediately when he registered her distressed position although she was indeed happy to see him.
"You alright? What's up?" He asked, making his way over to the couch and urgently sitting next to her. He laid the flowers in her lap and gently placed a hand on her knee. When he looked at her again, seriously, she gave him a reassuring smile.
"Yeah?" He asked, encouraging her to talk to him. He laid a heavy hand on her tiny, black tight clad thigh.
"These are beautiful, Patrice," she smiled, bringing the flowers to her face and smelling them with a deep breath.
"Aren't they? I don't know what they're called; can't say it," he said, bending forward and fishing for the beautiful plants' name in the folded card tied to the packaging with twine.
"You're sweet," she said, flashing him her teeth in a warm smile, genuinely cheered up.
He smiled back at her, pleased with himself. He looked stunning in his attire for the night; he could definitely rock the black tie get-up. He couldn't get over how beautiful she looked, though, in her simple, elegant black dress.
"You seemed stressed," he said, redirecting her attention. "Can I help?"
"Wh-oh no, no, Patrice, thanks though," she said, smiling again at him. She offered him some wine he accepted before she got up.
"I should put these in water before we head out, yeah?" She called from over the island in the kitchen.
"Yeah," she heard him reply. He stood up and watched her as he held her wine properly, from the stem, as not to warm it. He awkwardly put his right hand in his pocket, still eyeing her closely.
She snipped the stems and arranged the flowers in a vase full of water. He was getting good at reading her; she was definitely stressed--and not with him he was sure; maybe something hadn't gone the best way in one of her lectures or classes. Maybe she had received negative comments on her thesis--although Patrice dismissed this thought immediately. Sure, he was only really coming to get to know Jamie as of recent, but, he knew her well enough to know she didn't take short cuts, either. Although her work may be different from his, it did not differ in the pure blood, sweat and tears it took to execute their fine craftsmanship.
Her dress hugged her hips in a very sophisticated, attractive manner, only belling out slightly around her thighs, professionally. Her sweater hugged her waist in such a perfect way that her shape was compelling and inviting to him, and he wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her from behind.
She turned around a smiled at him, very pleased with the flowers; he had done just the right thing to set her in the proper, jovial mood to go and socialize tonight. With a few quick strides, she surprised herself and her handsome date, gently pressing herself to his taught chest, her arms holding his sides and her lips meeting his.
He seemed to melt into the kiss, receiving from her just the little boost of confidence he needed to start off the evening on the right foot as well.