The night I planned to ask Miles Whitmore to marry me, I stood barefoot in his penthouse surrounded by eight hundred red roses and discovered that the man I had loved for three years had been using me as camouflage.

Three months later.

February in Chicago brought crisp, clear days with bright blue skies and bitter, cold winds off the lake.

I stood near the wide west-facing window of my Pilsen loft, wearing a thick grey wool sweater and thick socks, holding a steaming mug of black coffee.

The room was filled with life. Green potted plants sat on the wide window sills; my wooden barre stood near the far wall; framed photographs of my grandmother, Maya, and my dance company friends hung neatly on the exposed brick.

On the small wooden dining table sat a clean, unopened black notebook and a pen.

My phone rang on the counter. It was Maya.

"Grace! Are you coming to the studio early today? The guest choreographer from San Francisco just arrived!"

"I'll be there in twenty minutes, Maya," I smiled into the receiver. "Just finishing my coffee."

"Hurry up! He's looking at the soloist roster and he specifically asked for you!"

"I'm on my way."

I hung up the phone, set my coffee mug down, and walked over to the table.

I picked up the pen, opened the black notebook to the very first page, and wrote three words at the top:

The Inventory of Grace.

I thought back to that night three months ago—the night I had sat on a cold marble floor in a thirty-sixth-floor penthouse, counting eight hundred and twelve roses and thirty-six candles, trying to understand how a three-year relationship could collapse into a single lie.

I had thought numbers were cold, logical, and unfeeling.

But as I looked around my sunlit loft, listening to the quiet hum of my own life, I realized that some numbers were beautiful.

I sat down in the wooden chair and began to write:

1 loft with west-facing windows. 1 lead soloist position earned through eighteen years of hard work. 1 grandmother who loves me without conditions. 4 hundred dollars saved in my own bank account every month. 0 regrets. 1 woman who belongs entirely to herself.

I closed the notebook, set the pen down, and smiled.

The florist at the penthouse had been right about one thing.