A Walk Across the Sun by Corban Addison

leagues.
    â€œHey, stranger.”
    The voice startled him. He turned and looked into the aquamarine eyes of Tera Atwood.
    â€œI called you all weekend,” she said, “but you didn’t answer.” She sidled up to him and touched his arm. “Go anywhere fun?”
    Tera was a graduate of Chicago Law and an associate one year his junior. She was smart, vivacious, and pretty. Tonight she was dressed in a silver-sequined gown that looked more cabaret star than big-firm litigator.
    â€œI went to the beach with a few friends,” he said, glancing around to see if anyone was looking at them. “I forgot my BlackBerry.”
    He tried to relax but couldn’t. Tera’s effect on him was overpowering. Her presence could be summed up in two words: desire and guilt.
    She gave him a coquettish smile. “We could get out of here and go someplace private.”
    His guilt mushroomed. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
    Tera looked confused and a little hurt. “My dear Thomas, you forget that Priya left you. What do you have to hide?”
    He surveyed the crowd. “They don’t know that.”
    â€œHow long do you plan to keep it a secret?”
    â€œI’m not sure,” he replied, wishing this conversation were not happening.
    â€œAre you ashamed of me, Thomas?” Tera’s tone was light, but the question was barbed.
    â€œOf course not,” he replied quickly. Why was he so keen to placate her?
    Tera put her hand on his arm again. “What about tomorrow?”
    He saw one of the partners in the litigation division glance toward them, and he averted his eyes. “Tomorrow is better,” he said, hoping she would take the cue and leave him alone.
    â€œCan’t wait,” she replied and left him to greet a friend.
    He watched her go and wished he could disappear. Tera was one of the incomprehensible parts of his story. He had always despised the profligate culture of the firm—all the hanky-panky among colleagues, the mistresses on the side. He had been devoted to Priya. Tera had worked with him on the Wharton case for three years, but he had considered her a friend, nothing more. Then tragedy struck and the rules suddenly changed. She had reached out to him at just the wrong moment—when Priya’s grief had transmuted from a suffering silence into hard-edged bitterness.
    The affair had started innocently enough: a laugh here, a pat on the shoulder there. But somewhere in the maelstrom of preparing for the Wharton trial and Priya’s caustic depression, he had crossed the line from attraction to infatuation. He stayed at the office later and later, dreading the diatribes he would endure at home for every little failure Priya perceived or invented. He couldn’t talk to her about Mohini. She wouldn’t even speak the little girl’s name. He was profoundly vulnerable, and Tera was available. More than available: she was bewitching.
    He had resisted her physical advances until Priya left, but in the last three weeks, he had been to her Capitol Hill apartment twice. He had never stayed overnight. His guilt was far too intense for that. But he had given in to the temptation to sleep with her because she was sensitive and beautiful, and his wife was gone.
    He looked at his watch and saw that it was ten o’clock. He drew himself together and made the rounds, traded witticisms with a couple of senior partners, and then took his leave. He left the Mayflower on foot and walked south along 18th Street to K Street. The night was cold and clear. The brighter stars were visible through the haze of pollution. Thomas huddled into his topcoat. He considered hailing a cab but thought better of it. He would walk.
    Twenty-five minutes later, he arrived home feeling mildly invigorated. He went straight to the kitchen and poured a glass of scotch. He brought the bottle with him to the couch and tried to empty his mind. But the guilt