SATURDAY, 5 SEPTEMBER. 5 pm or something like that.

Handshakes, check.

Anthems, check.

Kick-off, check.

What exactly happened next?

No bloody idea.

We all came here today, to my sister's place, to have a family dinner and watch the ball game. Our national team is playing against San Marino. Mark and Josh, all dressed up with England's shirts and waving scarves and flags, are already celebrating effusively. On the opposite end of the sofa, my father is all steamed up, grumbling about the crazy amount of money players are getting these days for kicking a ball like a girl.

0-2, I check on the TV screen.

Apparently, Wayne Rooney has just scored and equalled Sir Bobby Charlton's all-time goal record and is now a national hero. It seems England is about to qualify for the next European Championship.

Finally, some good news.

End result: 0-6

Six? We scored six times?

I could swear I only saw one goal, the one some poor bloke from the other team threw into the wrong net, scoring for us. He's probably in the doghouse right now and feels like shit, as if he had shot himself in the foot.

That's basically how I'm feeling too.

Bloody hell, my mind has been miles away the whole time, reeling as I try to figure out how I'm going to deal with it. With the fact that I want to see her so badly but don't quite know where to start.

If I should even start in the first place.

It could all go so wrong.

Yeah, but it could be sort of great too.

What if it doesn't work out?

But what if it does?

"Sue! Bring us some more beer, will you, babe?" Mark shouts towards the balcony.

My sister, who's outside chatting with our mother, turns to look at him with narrowed eyes. "What?"

She heard him right. She's just giving him the chance to think it over before she asks why he isn't moving his own arse instead.

"Never mind, I'll do it." I get up and head to the kitchen. I'm in no condition for post-match comments anyway.

After pulling three beers from the fridge, I begin to rummage through the cabinets and drawers for the bottle opener. "Mark, where's the–?"

"Here!" My sister hands it over to me. "I've got something else for you. Wait a sec, don't go."

"What then?"

Sue disappears into the hallway, returning a minute later, carrying Emma on her hip. She puts her toddler down, next to the play kitchen set, and shoves a piece of paper in my hand. "Here. Now don't be a wuss." She completes her strange action with a knowing smile and a wink.

Without further words, she leaves, missing the confused frown on my face.

When I'm about to look at the yellow post-it note, a small hand begins to tug at my jeans. "What the fuck, Uncle Brian!"

What?!

"What the fuck!" she screams louder this time, her tiny hand pulling quite energetically.

I shove the note into my pocket and bend down. "Emma, sweetheart, that's not a nice thing to say."

She sucks in a long breath and puts on a huge pout, her face turning red, a sob threatening to break out of her chest any second. And it eventually does. Dreadful. She begins to cry and scream the same line repeatedly, louder and louder, her feet in a sort of frantic tap-dancing.

Sue storms back into the kitchen with her face screwed into a huge frown and grabs some tiny pink thingy from the counter. "Here you go, sweetie," she says, calming her down and sending her back to her little kitchen.

I look at my sister, confused.

"She wanted the fork, duh!" She sighs dramatically, shaking her head.

Letting out a loud laugh, I hold my hands up in surrender. Ah-ah, the fork! Obviously! What else could it be?

When I'm holding the three open bottles and getting ready to return to the living room, our eyes meet and Emma giggles, her huge blue eyes now so bright, her smile the cutest thing I've ever seen.

"Want to play with me, Uncle Brian?" She gets up and extends her hand to invite me to join her. Somehow the hem of her dress is now up, and her tiny bottom is exposed to the open air.

"Where's your underwear?"

She shrugs, her hands held out in a pretty, innocent, open gesture. "I ran to the bathroom as fast as I could, but it was faster than me."

"Sweetie, go talk to mummy." Seriously, I can't handle any more details.

She shakes her head. "Uh-uh. I like it this way. It feels soo much fresher."

Oh God, the chill zone.

"Uncle Brian?"

"Yes?"

"Mum doesn't have a weeny." She's seemingly distracted pouring tea into a mini cup.

"I know." I stifle a snort.

"But she has big titties. I can't wait until I have my own!"

Another loud laugh echoes through the house.

*

"What am I supposed to do with this?" I ask Sue when she joins me in the back garden.

I've been sitting here for a while now, alone, drinking my feelings away and flipping the yellow note with Olivia's address between my fingers.

"What do you think?" Her gaze penetrates mine. "Look at you, you're a wreck since she left. For the love of God, do something about it."

"I'm not so sure she wants to see me again. She didn't even let me take her to the airport."

"You didn't insist."

"You've got to be joking, she totally blew me off! Johnny should take her, everyone heard that."

Sue's eyes snap open and she takes a sharp inhale. "Listen, what women say isn't always what they mean, you should know that by now. For Christ's sake, you have to learn how to read between the lines."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

She blows out a quick exhale. "Hear me out: when women say 'maybe' what do you think they mean?"

"Are you tipsy or what? Maybe means maybe – what other hidden meaning could I possibly be missing here?"

"No, it means no. Obviously. What if a woman says 'we'll see'?

"Maybe?"

"Wrong again. That's another resounding no. What if she says 'yes'?"

I just shrug now, I don't even dare to take any more wild guesses.

"It means yes, of course!" She pauses for an instant. "Though sometimes it's a maybe... sometimes even a no. It depends on the context. Yeah, it's kind of complex."

"You bet it is. You should write a bloody manual to help us sort out what you're really saying. It'd be a best-seller."

"Yeah, like you've ever seen a man reading the instructions, right?" She lets out a hearty laugh. "Thing is, sometimes a 'no' is not a no. Sometimes it's an ask again because I want you to work harder for this."

I shake my head, frowning. That's just the craziest theory I've ever heard.

Silence sets in.

After a short while, Sue carries on, trying to lighten the mood, "Here's another one: what does 'do whatever you want' mean?"

"Easy. We're basically screwed if we go ahead and don't do exactly what you want. Voilà!"

"How about 'I'm almost ready'?"

"That could be five minutes, thirty minutes or an hour. Only God knows when, so we'd better grab ourselves a beer."

"'You don't need to buy me anything'?"

"We should come up with something that blows your mind. Otherwise, no one's getting laid in the next two weeks."

"Mate, I underestimated you!" She gives me an amused pat on the hand. "How about 'not now, we'll talk about this later'?"

"You're so pissed off you can't think straight anymore. You need time to gear up and figure out how you're going to bust Mark's balls. And now, the game is over. I really don't want to talk about it anymore."

"But–"

"I know you mean well, but you should stop hooking me up with every single friend you have. It was fun at the beginning, but it's becoming kind of annoying now. And as for Olivia, I'd prefer if you just stayed out of it. It's not as easy as you think and besides... well, it's none of your business!"

She crosses her arms and looks into the void. "Fine."

I nudge her with my elbow. "And 'fine' doesn't mean fine. In Chickanese it means just the opposite, it means you feel like smacking me on the head right now."

"I just think it's time for you to stop being mad at life. You should put it all behind you and move on. Because some dirty slapper turned your life upside down, it doesn't mean it will happen again. And the fact Rogers was an ungrateful son of a bitch? You have to let it all go, you can't let it affect you forever." She waves her hands in the air to emphasise her words. "And besides, Olivia cares for you, always has – even if you decided to stop talking to each other a long time ago. All these years and she's never stopped asking about you. Besides, she's also going through a rough patch. I'm certain she'd appreciate hearing back from a friend."

I process her words for a little while. "Okay, maybe I'll call her tomorrow."

She shakes her head and breathes out a loaded with confidence 'no'.

I frown, taken aback. "I don't get women, seriously. But you just told me to–"

"You're not calling her tomorrow. You're moving your lazy arse and going to see her."

I chuckle at the insane idea. "You're completely off your head. That'd be stupid, not to mention I can't leave right now. I'm swamped with work."

"Yeah, you're right. That nasty boss of yours may fire you if you can't make it on Monday. Damn that man!" She mocks, with a silly grin plastered on her face. "You'd better get yourself the flu or something contagious and call in sick. I'll bring you chicken soup."

"She's probably at work."

"We talked this afternoon." Sue elbows me playfully. "She's getting the next couple of days off."

"That's your epic brilliant plan? I just show up, unannounced?"

"Yes!" She raises her eyebrows as if the answer was too obvious.

"But that makes me a bit of a stalker, doesn't it?"

"No. But that question sure makes you a bit of a barmpot. You're not a stranger, why would she think that?"

I run my fingers through my hair and clasp my hands behind my head, feeling confused and overwhelmed. I was thinking of a subtler approach; this just feels too crazy, too risky.

Sue rests her hand on my leg and looks me in the eyes. "Look, sometimes women love when men do whacky things for them. So be bold, surprise her." With that, she stands and leaves me alone with my thoughts.

I check the time.

8:30. It's not too late.

I could call now.

I could, but I won't.

I'm calling her tomorrow.

When I'm on her doorstep.

* * *

xo, Ana