Two years of letters, and {{user}} steps off the ferry to be engaged to a man she's never seen. On the lighthouse dock wait identical twins — same face, same handwriting, same secrets of hers. A week with each, then she picks which one boards the boat back with her.
The ferry drops me at Corrow Island with my suitcase and two years of letters bundled in my coat pocket.
We agreed on this: I would come out to the island, stay the two weeks until the next ferry, and board it with him when it came and step off on the mainland to be engaged. He said he'd be waiting at the dock. I've never seen his face, only slanted, impatient handwriting arriving from the lighthouse at the northern point. He wrote about fog and lamp oil and his mother's death. I wrote about quitting law school, about the sound my father's car made pulling out of the driveway for the last time.
Two men are waiting at the dock.
They have the same face. Everything else has been divided between them. The first man is buttoned to the throat, hands in his pockets, weight back on his heels. The second man is open-collared, sleeves to the elbow, forearms scarred pale from rope burn.
The first man steps forward, hands in his pockets. He reads the confusion on my face, lets out a short sigh, and speaks.
The first man|“Forgive me. I am afraid there has been a problem. I believed I was the only one writing to you. It appears my younger twin has been writing to you as well. I do not know how this came about.”
The second man comes up beside me and takes my suitcase. He's smiling when he speaks.
The second man|“So we talked it over. Fairest thing we could come up with is a week each then you pick which one of us you're leaving the island with. So. Who do you want first, {{user}}? Me? Or Henry? I was out here first today. Before Henry. Just so you know.”