Emma is pretty with a distinctly cool vibe, and if it weren’t for how short she is, her dark hair and eyes would make me think she’s actually related to Mason, not just fostering him.

“I loved it,” I say, wracking my brain for some tidbit that wasn’t Mason related. “I can’t believe how dangerous it was to simply be female in Salem.”

“Or middle-aged. Or have too many friends. Or too few friends. Or be different in, you know, any way,” she adds.

“God forbid anyone be different than you expect them to be,” Mason says, and when Emma glances up at him, there’s a brief, awkward pause that ends in Mason quickly shifting his gaze down to his sneakers. Forget my mom and me, this dynamic looks complicated.

Emma tucks her hands in her pockets. “So, dinner. Do you want suggestions?”

“And maybe a walk?” Mason says. “I haven’t been by the water yet.” He gives me a quick wink, which makes my insides flutter. Good call. Best to leave Visit Willow’s witch aunts out of the mix. Too much to explain.

I swallow my nerves. “Suggestions would be great.”

Emma nods. “There’s a Star Wars–themed pizza place next to the Bewitched statue. Lots of weird action figures and funny memorabilia, very kitschy, but you can order by the slice and Simon and I went there about a million times while we were dating. Might be fun to check out.”

Wait. Does Emma think this is a date? I haven’t been on any yet, but I’m pretty sure that dragging Mason into my family’s complicated history does not qualify as one.

Am I really doing this?

“Sounds good,” I manage, but now I can’t look at Mason. I can do this. I can bring a cute boy to meet my witch aunts. Except I’m so nervous that now I’m getting light-headed.

Emma unzips her fanny pack, then holds out a couple of bills to Mason. “Dinner is on me.”

He puts his hands up defensively. “Oh, I don’t think I should take this—”

“Take it,” she says. “You’ve been helping out a lot. Don’t think I haven’t seen the hours you put in with the girls every day. And be home by… eleven? Midnight?” She smiles at me. “Sorry, I’m not used to setting curfews. What do the kids do these days?”

“Eleven is fine,” I say quickly. I check my watch. That gives us over two hours.

“Great. See you back home, Mason.” She pushes up the sleeves of her jacket, revealing a pink seashell tattoo, then gives us a little wave as she heads back up Washington Street.