We leave Ben's place just shy of an hour later. It's still not clear whether he's left his apartment or if we just arrived at the wrong time. I think I fall asleep, not for too long, some time during the drive to Omar's mom's place. When I wake up, there's only seven minutes left of the drive there. It's strange, waking up to feeling even more tired than I did before.

"You're awake," Omar comments.

I wipe a patch of slobber from the side of my mouth, hoping he hasn't noticed. His lack of slobber related talk makes me think I've gotten away with it.

"Sorry," I shake my head, looking around at the unfamiliar streets.

"We're nearly there."

The houses are gorgeous in this neighborhood. Some of them look newly constructed, modern and all that. Grass that seem to stretch on plots larger than the houses, with mail boxes a morning run from the door. I had not thought about what I pictured Omar's family's place would look like but I also would never have expected this kind of neighborhood either. 

We finally come to a stop and to my slight nervousness, we step out at the foot of a black matte door and neatly trimmed garden. The red bricks make the house look even fancier than the others on the same street. I wait for Omar to walk and I follow close behind him, still half expecting him to take a turn.

"Don't be nervous," he surprises me by saying. I didn't think I was that obvious.

"Huh?"

"Just saying, don't be nervous. And also, mom can get a little dramatic so, fair warning."

"Okay," I barely am able to get out before a woman, my height and roundish face opens the door.

She looks at me and then Omar, when her face relaxes with familiarity.

"Omar," she presses his face between her two palms.

When he pulls away, her attention is on me. Thankfully, Omar introduces me so I don't have to. I'm already beginning to rethink this decision.

"Mom, this is Liberty. She'll be using the guest room for a couple of days."

Couple of days, not likely. Our days are coming up fast, I wonder if he has forgotten just how close they are.

"It's Lib. You can call me Lib," I say.

"Of course," she smiles and we enter the house. "Lunch is in the dining room."

Omar looks over his shoulder as if to check with me if it's okay if we eat first. The house is prettier on the inside and that's saying something. The rooms are spacious and very minimalist. The living room, with its wide window, lets in so much sunlight that for a minute I'm stunned.

"Beautiful plants," I say as we walk past the row of planters and vines.

"Thank you, you like plants too?"

"Oh I love them," I reply without much thought so I have to correct myself when the words are said. "But I've never kept any."

In the dining room, sits a large chandelier above the wooden table. We sit opposite each other. Omar and I. His mom sits at the head of the table and helps serve the food to which we oblige. Omar digs in almost immediately. His mom bites into a finger sandwich. I take my time before eventually stabbing an olive with my fork.

I've never really had food like this at home before. Maybe a couple of times in restaurants with a friend many years ago. So long ago that I don't remember it at all. And mom, well, while she can cook, she can't cook stuff like this. I dip my spoon into the rice. I don't even know the name of what I'm eating.

"The food is delicious," I make the remark after some time.

"Thank you," she smiles.

I meet Omar's inquisitive gaze from across the table, though I'm the one who breaks it almost instantly after. I'm worried he's read my thoughts somehow. Of course he can't but with the sunlight in his eyes from the window behind me, it looks like he knows everything.

"Sorry, is there a bathroom I can use," I stand up once my plate is clean.

"Yes, down the corridor. First left."

"Thanks."

I try not to be too nosy while making my way to the bathroom. I don't know who else is in the house so I make note not to make my peering too obvious. The bathroom is fancy. Black tiles behind the sink and a string of lights that make my few white hair shine like silver. I pull out my phone, my thumb sitting ready on the power button when I remember that I could be tracked. After Omar being nice enough to bring me over to his mother's, I can't imagine causing a police trace to her house. 

I stay in the bathroom for a pretty long time, contemplating my decision of staying in the first place. I can hear his mom clear up the dining room, plates clattering in the kitchen and Omar's voice trailing after hers as he helps her. I pull the seat up from where I was sitting and run the water in the sink, pretending to wash my hands to help keep up appearances. After drying my hands, I push my phone back into my pocket and listen to the careful click of the bathroom door unlocking.

"He's in the garden," his mom says as I wonder aimlessly into the kitchen. She's loading the dish washer.

"I can help with those," I offer but she begins to shake her head already.

"It's okay, thank you. Besides, I'm almost done."

"I just wanted to thank you for lunch and letting me use the spare room," I try to say without sounding too awkward.

She picks up a towel and dries her hands. "It's no worry at all. Remind me how you know my son, again?"

I realize Omar hasn't given her much information to make any judgements on me so far. But I'm not sure what she knows as to contradict Omar's falsifications.

"I met him at work," I say simply, looking out the window to see him bouncing a ball in the back.

"Right," she drapes the towel back on its place. I may be paranoid but she doesn't seem convinced.

"Go ahead to the garden if you'd like," she tells me and for once, I don't wait for someone to repeat their instructions. Anything to avoid her curiosity. 

Omar's in a white t-shirt, different to what he was wearing when we first came in. I suspect he still has some of his things in this house, probably from when he still lived here. He runs around the court, bouncing a basketball and throws it into the hoop. That's when he notices me standing by the wall.

After a moment of silence, he holds up his hand to acknowledge me. I raise mine up too and wave it once. The white t-shirt is long, reaching below his hips. On him, it looks sort of over-sized. More of a jersey than an actual t-shirt.

"Wanna play?" he asks, holding out the ball on one outstretched hand towards me.

I squint as the sun shines straight in my eyes and walk over to him. He lets the ball roll out of his hand and I catch it after it bounces on the concrete.

"Private basketball court, eh?" I tease, bouncing the ball in one stationary spot.

He shakes his head, "Yeah well."

"I didn't know you came from old money," I jeer, slowly making my way over to the net without stopping the ball once.

"Not really, I mean none of this is mine."

"I'm only joking," I say, bending my knees slightly and shooting the ball through the hoop. Omar jogs over to retrieve the ball, walking back to me with it under his arm.

"I moved out over five years ago," he tells me. "Mom says she wants to convert the court into a pool."

"Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing, I'm just wondering why you'd leave such a beautiful house behind."

He looks over my shoulder at the house and then back at me. 

"It just got hard to live in. Truth is, I haven't been back in a long time."

"How long?" I can't help but ask.

"Over a year," he gives a small smile before turning and throwing the ball into the hoop. He makes the shot. Even from all the way over here. 

"Nice shot."

He pushes his hands into the pockets of his trousers. 

"Hey Liberty," he says. "I want to show you something."

We walk back into the house and the kitchen is empty and the dish washer runs in the background. 

"Where's your mom?" I ask as he leads me up the stairs.

"I don't know," he mumbles. "In her room probably."

We get to his room which is exactly the way I expected it to be. For a son who hasn't been back in over a year, there wouldn't be much. There's an average looking bed against the wall, clean sheets neatly tucked under the mattress. A wardrobe opposite it with a full length mirror stuck to one of its doors and an old poster of The Killers.

"Nice guitar," I say as he picks it up from beside his cupboard.

"I didn't even know this was still here," he strums some of the strings with his thumb.

"Does it work?"

"It's out of tune and a little dusty," he carries it over and sits on the edge of his bed. I lean against the wall, arms crossed over my chest and watch him.

After a period of adjustments, he looks at me and asks, "Do you want to try?"