Page 117 of The Way We Touch

The worry lining her young face makes my stomach drop, and all my fears are momentarily set aside. “What’s wrong?”

She nervously looks around the space as if to be sure everyone is gone. Then she steps forward, clutching my arm.

“Did you ever feel like you couldn’t do it? Like it’s all too much?” She releases me and paces away. “It’s all happening so fast, and yeah, I’m good here, but I’m not New York good.”

Pressing my lips together, I collect my thoughts. Her back is to me, and I see her shoulders rising and falling rapidly with her panicked breathing.

“Hey.” I slowly walk across the stage to where she’s standing, taking her hand in mine. “Of course, I felt that way. Everybody does, but you dance through it.”

“It’s more than that.” Tears are in her eyes, and her face drops. “Who am I to think I can be a prima ballerina? I’m just a girl from Newhope, Alabama.”

“It’s true. Right now, that’s all you are.” Dipping my chin, I catch her eye. “Natalie Varnum was just a girl from Dothan, and now she’s a lead dancer with the Houston ballet.”

Mia’s brow furrows, and she swallows her tears. “I’m so afraid.”

Stepping closer, I pull her into a hug. “If you weren’t afraid, I’d be worried you were a narcissist. Everyone is afraid. No one knows if they’re good enough or what directors want, but we keep trying anyway.” Releasing her, I touch her chin. “But I think you’re good enough. I believe in you, and I can’t wait to see how high you fly.”

Her lips press into a smiley-frown, and tears spill onto her cheeks. “Thank you, Miss Dylan.”

I exhale a smile, tapping my fingers against my own eyes. “I’ve got to get to the restaurant, but you keep that chin up.”

“Parallel to the floor?”

“Always.”

“I’m so proud of you. I knew you’d be the best teacher.” Craig beams at me from a safe distance on the other side of the metal table in the kitchen at Cooters & Shooters. “That little Mia has no idea the torture we endured under Ms. Westwood. Was she Russian?”

“She wasn’t Russian!” I lean forward with a laugh. “She was just old-school.”

Logan was supposed to help me with the recipe tonight, but at the last minute he got all mysterious, saying he had a big surprise for us. Then he took off in Zane’s Jeep.

“What do you think that old bat would’ve said if you’d started crying and said you didn’t think you were good enough?”

“Oh, man.” I shake my head, picking up a spoon to scoop the middle out of an avocado. “She’d have probably said something like if I thought that, then I probably wasn’t good enough.”

“Then she’d have made you do seventeen minutes of pirouettes.”

“Until someone cut those red shoes off my feet,” I cry, quickly slicing a plum tomato and tossing it into the bowl.

“God, that story.” Craig does a full-body shiver. “What was wrong with Hans Christian Andersen?”

“He was Danish.”

“The old ways weren’t the best ways.” Thomas leans his head in as he passes us on the way to the stove. “You did the right thing for that little girl, and you were better than good enough.”

“Thank you, Thomas.” I call after him.

I grab the kosher salt, a lemon, a lime, a pinch of cilantro, then it’s time for the star ingredient.

“Trinidad Scorpion.” My eyes widen as I lift the round, red pepper.

It’s about the size of a small tomato with wrinkled skin and a pointed tip.

“Where did you find that thing?” Craig lifts the bar towel over his nose and mouth.

“Crosby, Mississippi—can you believe it?” I slide on my gloves and grab a knife. “These little guys are almost as hot as the Carolina Reaper, but it’s a sweet heat that builds and builds and builds…”

Allie breezes into the room, scooping up her apron. “Ooo, who’s this little guy?”

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