The Spare Phone Held Years Of Spare Love Chapter 08

The Spare Phone Held Years Of Spare Love Chapter 08

The ruling came down in early November. 

The court found that during our marriage, Ethan had maintained a long–term improper relationship 

with Laurel, constituting serious marital 

misconduct. 

Of the six hundred thousand dollars he had 

transferred, five hundred fifty thousand was 

determined to be dissipation of marital assets, 

and the court ordered full repayment. 

The condo and the car were both included in the 

repayment schedule. 

As for the bigamy–related claim, the court declined 

to uphold it because the evidence was insufficient 

to prove they had publicly lived together as 

husband and wife. 

My attorney asked if I wanted to appeal. 

I shook my head. 

“That’s enough.” 

Five hundred fifty thousand dollars. 

The eighty–seven thousand my father had left me. 

The proceeds from the old house Ethan’s parents 

had left behind. 

Every dollar I had earned through eight years of 

working late nights, catching red–eye flights, and 

refusing to take vacation days because I thought 

we were building a future. 

It had all come back. 

My attorney handed me a copy of the judgment. 

“Mrs. Bennett,” she said, “I’ve never seen anyone 

handle a case like this as cleanly as you did.” 

I took the papers. 

“It wasn’t clean.” 

“I was just tired.” 

She said nothing after that. 

That evening, I went back home. 

Everything had already been packed. 

The living room still looked the same. The sofa 

cover had not been changed, and our wedding 

photo still sat on the TV console. 

In the photo, we were both young. 

He wore a white shirt. I wore a wedding dress with 

a long train. We stood under the ginkgo tree by the university gate. 

It was late October, and the leaves had turned a perfect gold. 

The photographer told the groom to smile. 

Ethan forced out an expression that looked worse 

than crying. 

I laughed beside him. 

That was our seventh year together. 

People always talked about the seven–year itch. 

We chose that exact year to get married. 

On the day I handled the property transfer, the real 

estate agent asked, “After this place is sold, where 

will you live?” 

“I’m moving south,” I said. 

A small coastal town. Somewhere by the ocean, 

where winter didn’t feel so cold. 

She glanced at me and didn’t ask more. 

As for the La Jolla condo Ethan had wanted to 

buy, the down payment never came together, so it 

fell through in the end. 

What happened to his retirement account after 

that, I didn’t know, and I never asked. 

On November 17, I moved out of the apartment in 

the city and loaded the last few boxes onto the 

moving truck. 

The wind was strong that day. 

I stood at the entrance of the complex, waiting for the truck driver, while the hood of my down jacket 

ballooned in the wind. 

A cab stopped by the curb. 

The door opened, and Laurel got out. 

She looked even thinner than she had a month earlier. Her trench coat had been replaced by a thick winter coat, and her stomach was high and 

round now. She held one hand against her lower 

back as she walked. 

In her other hand was a brown paper bag. 

“This is for you.” 

I didn’t take it. 

“What is it?” 

“The things he wrote.” She lowered her eyes. 

“Letters, notes, drafts. Eight years‘ worth.” 

“I found them while I was clearing out the condo. 

It felt wrong to throw them away.” 

“Burn them, then.” 

She didn’t move. 

The wind blew her hair into her face. 

“Mrs. Bennett,” she said, “after the baby is born, I’ll 

raise her by myself.” 

“I won’t give her his last name. I won’t let her know 

him as her father.” 

“And I won’t look for him again.” 

I looked at her. 

Her eyes were not red, and her voice was steady. Only her fingers kept tightening around the paper bag until her knuckles went pale. 

“That’s between you and him,” I said. 

She nodded lightly. 

“I know.” 

She set the bag at my feet, then turned and slowly 

walked back toward the cab. 

The driver got out to help her. 

She sat in the back seat and didn’t look back. 

After the cab pulled away, I remained where I was. 

At my feet, the wind lifted one corner of the brown 

paper bag. 

I crouched down and tucked it into the gap 

between two cardboard boxes. 

The moving truck driver honked. 

“Ms. Bennett, we’re ready to go!” 

“Coming.” 

I closed the truck door.