10

Chapter Seven

The days passed with Jacob clinging carefully to his routines--morning guitar practice, exercise, work, evening painting--but with one notable difference. In quiet moments, his mind kept returning to the songs he'd shared with Jet, imagining how her voice might transform them. At night, he found himself jotting down additional notes, alternative bridges, counter-melodies that might complement her interpretations.

Wednesday arrived with a nervous energy that followed him throughout the day. At the fab shop, Jacob approached his supervisor during the morning break, a request he'd been rehearsing in his mind.

"George," he said, standing straighter than usual. "I was wondering if I could leave an hour early today. I've got a... music thing."

Gaines, a barrel-chested man with thirty years of welding experience etched into the lines around his eyes, looked surprised. In the two years Jacob had worked there, he had never been late, never missed a day, never asked for special accommodation.

"A music thing, huh?" Gaines considered him for a moment. "You got all the repairs on the Billings order done?"

"Yes, sir. And I've already prepped tomorrow's materials."

Gaines nodded slowly. "Alright then." He turned to head back to his office, then paused. "This music thing--that what you do on weekends down at the market?"

Jacob blinked, surprised. "You know about that?"

"Course I do. My wife drags me there most Saturdays." Gaines shrugged. "You're good. Different from what I usually listen to, but good."

The unexpected compliment stayed with Jacob throughout the day, a reminder of how little he knew about his coworkers' perceptions of him. Unbeknownst to him, he was considered a top hand. The other welders appreciated his precision, his focus, his willingness to learn. He was always eager to improve, never made the same mistake twice, and worked hard for the full eight hours he was there. His scars were simply part of him, like Martinez's tattoos or Dawson's limp--noted but irrelevant to the quality of his work.

At quarter past five, Jacob left the shop, stopping at home only long enough to shower away the day's dust and change into clean clothes. He gathered his guitar, his notebook and the cassette recordings, then headed for the community college campus.

The arts building was smaller than he'd expected, a two-story brick structure set apart from the main campus. Student artwork and concert announcements livened the walls. Jacob followed Jet's directions, finding Practice Room C at the end of a quiet hallway.

The room itself was modest but functional, with thick acoustic panels on the walls, a baby grand piano dominating one corner and various music stands scattered about. A small recording setup occupied a table against one wall: a cassette deck, microphones and a basic mixer.

Jet was already there, seated at the piano, working through what Jacob recognized as the bridge from "Hidden Light," one of the songs he'd shared. She'd changed it slightly, adding jazz-influenced chord extensions that gave the melody a richer, more complex feel.

When she saw him in the doorway, she stopped playing and smiled. "Right on time," she said, gesturing for him to enter. "What do you think of that variation?"

Jacob set down his guitar case and stepped closer to the piano. "Play it again?"

She did, this time singing softly along with the melody. Her voice brought the passage to life in a way his rough recording hadn't captured, finding emotional nuances in the lyrics that he'd written but never fully expressed.

"That's..." he searched for the right word, "... a lot better than what I wrote."

"Different," Jet corrected. "Not better. Just a different interpretation."

For all his street smarts, Jacob was curiously innocent when it came to social interactions. Years of people avoiding his gaze had left him with little practice in the ordinary give-and-take of friendship. He didn't want to make a mistake with Jet--not because he harbored romantic notions, but because he recognized her talent and genuinely wanted a friend who understood his music.

"I brought my notebook," he said, pulling it from his bag. "Had some ideas about the arrangement--places where we could add harmonies, maybe an instrumental break after the second chorus."

Jet's eyes lit up. "I've been thinking about harmonies, too." She patted the piano bench beside her. "Show me what you're thinking."

Jacob hesitated only briefly before sitting at the edge of the bench, leaving an appropriate space between them. He opened his notebook to the relevant page, where he'd sketched out a notation for vocal harmonies that would complement the main melody.

"Here," he said, pointing to a particular passage. "If you take the melody, I could come in underneath with this harmony line. Kind of creates a conversation between the voices."

Jet studied his notes, humming the line softly. "That works," she said, nodding. "And here--" she played a chord with her left hand, "--if I add this underneath while we're singing, it ties the whole section together."

They worked like this for over an hour, moving between the piano and Jacob's guitar, piecing together arrangements for the three songs. Jet's formal musical training complemented Jacob's intuitive approach; where he sometimes struggled to articulate why a particular change felt right, she could explain it in terms of music theory. Where she occasionally over thought a section, he could pull it back to its emotional core.

"You know what these songs need?" Jet said eventually, stepping back from the piano. "Percussion. Nothing heavy--maybe just brushes on a snare, light cymbal work."

Jacob nodded thoughtfully. "I can hear that. Especially on the third song."

"I know a guy," Jet offered. "Marcus. Plays drums for the jazz ensemble here. He's got a light touch, knows when to lay back."

The casual suggestion of bringing in a third person made Jacob tense slightly. "Another person?"

Jet caught his hesitation. "Just for recording," she clarified. "Not for the working sessions. These sessions--" she gestured between them, "--this is our space to figure things out."

"Our space," Jacob repeated, the phrase feeling foreign but not unwelcome.

"Unless you'd rather keep it just us all the way through," Jet added, watching him carefully. "No pressure either way."

Jacob considered it, weighing his discomfort with meeting someone new against what the songs truly needed. "Let's see how the arrangements develop," he said finally. "If they need percussion, then... yeah. We can talk to your friend."

Jet's smile suggested she recognized the concession for what it was--a small step toward expanding his comfort zone. "Fair enough," she said. "Ready to actually record a rough version of 'Hidden Light'? See how our arrangement works all the way through?"

They positioned themselves near the microphones, Jacob with his guitar, Jet at the piano. The first take was halting, both of them too self-conscious about the recording. The second was better, but still disjointed.

"We're over thinking it," Jet said, running a hand through her hair in frustration. "Let's just play it like we did earlier--no pressure, just feeling it out."

"Forget the recording?" Jacob suggested.

"No, let it run. But let's pretend it's not there. Just you and me, working through the song."

Jacob nodded, took a deep breath, and began the intro again. This time, when Jet's voice joined his guitar, something clicked. Her interpretation of his lyrics brought out meanings he hadn't fully realized were there. When he added his harmony in the chorus, their voices blended in a way that created something greater than either alone.

By the time they reached the end, both had forgotten the recording entirely, lost in the story the song was telling. As the last note faded, the practice room fell silent except for the soft hiss of the cassette tape still rolling.

"That," Jet said quietly, "is what collaboration feels like."

Jacob nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He'd never experienced music quite that way before--as a conversation rather than a monologue, as something alive and evolving between two people.

"We should listen to it back," he said finally, setting his guitar aside.

They huddled around the cassette deck, shoulders almost touching as Jet rewound the tape and pressed play. As their recorded voices filled the room, Jacob studied their performance with his usual critical ear--noting where the tempo wavered slightly, where his harmony came in a beat too late--but also hearing the undeniable spark that had emerged.

"It needs work," he said when the recording ended.

"Of course it does," Jet agreed. "That's just the skeleton. But it's a good skeleton."

Jacob checked his watch, surprised to find it was already past nine. "I should probably head out," he said reluctantly. "Early start tomorrow."

As they packed up their instruments and notes, Jacob felt an unfamiliar sense of accomplishment--different from the satisfaction of completing a perfect weld or finishing a painting. This was creativity shared, a bridge built not just from him to an anonymous audience, but directly to another person who understood what he was trying to express.

"Same time next week?" Jet asked as they stepped into the hallway.

"I could do Monday too," Jacob found himself offering. "If you're free."

Jet's smile widened slightly. "Monday works. And maybe this weekend I could stop by the market again, hear how you're developing that new song you were working on."

"I'd like that," Jacob said, surprised to find he genuinely meant it.

As they parted ways in the parking lot--Jet to her small Honda, Jacob to catch the bus back to his apartment--he realized something had shifted. The carefully constructed routine of his life, built to protect him from rejection and disappointment, now had a deliberate opening. A space where something new could grow, not despite his scars but alongside them.

The thought followed him home, through his evening routine, and into his prayers before sleep. "Thank you," he whispered into the darkness, "for the new melodies I couldn't have found alone.

Chapter Eight

It was during their third session in the practice room that Jacob realized he had made a mistake. He had given her the songs not to sing but to own. The realization came as he watched Jet work through an arrangement of "Hidden Light," changing both melody and lyrics with confident ease. The songs were becoming hers in a way he hadn't anticipated.

As he sat quietly, guitar across his lap, a familiar tightness formed in his chest. His songs were deeply personal--fragments of his soul carefully arranged into melody and verse. Giving them away felt like surrendering pieces of himself. Even the thought of selling his work made him ill, which was why he'd never pursued publishing despite his prolific output.

"What do you think about changing this line?" Jet asked, turning to him with bright eyes. "'The shadows hold no fear for me' could be 'The shadows can't exist in me.' Gets to the same idea but feels more active, you know?"

Jacob nodded automatically, though something must have shown in his expression.

"Or we could keep it as is," Jet added quickly. "They're your songs, after all."

"That's just it," Jacob mumbled. "They're not, are they? Not anymore."

Jet's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I gave them to you," he clarified. "Not just to sing. To have."

Understanding dawned on her face. "Jacob, I never meant to take ownership. I thought we were collaborating, not--"

"It's okay," he interrupted, deciding in that moment. "I knew what I was doing, even if I didn't fully understand what it would feel like." He faced up to it and let them go, his voice steadier than he expected. "Those three songs are yours now. To record, to perform, to change. Whatever you want to do with them."

"But--"

"I gave them freely," Jacob insisted. "And I'll help finish the arrangements. But I need to be clear about this--going forward, anything else we work on together stays... shared. These three are different."

Jet studied him for a long moment. "You're sure?"

Jacob nodded. "I'm sure."

As was his usual mode, he faced his mistake, took responsibility, and then let it go. The collaboration was reward enough--the experience of creating with someone who understood his musical language, who could take his ideas and expand them in ways he never would have considered. He would simply be more careful with boundaries in the future.

Over the next three weeks, they met twice weekly, polishing the songs until they shone like diamonds. Jacob brought his perfectionism to the process, insisting on reworking sections until they flowed naturally, until each song felt complete and inevitable. Jet introduced Marcus, the drummer, during their fifth session. To Jacob's surprise, the addition of a third person didn't disrupt their dynamic--Marcus was quiet, intuitive, and focused entirely on serving the songs.

Their final recording session took place on a Sunday at a small studio Jet knew, where they laid down proper demos of all three songs. The owner, an old jazz musician named Ray who owed Jet a favor, handled the mixing with a delicate touch that preserved the emotional core of each piece.

"These are special," Ray told them when they gathered to hear the final mixes. "Don't know what you kids plan to do with them, but they deserve to be heard."

Two days later, Jet called Jacob, her voice vibrating with excitement.

"You're not going to believe this," she said without preamble. "Ray sent the demos to this producer he knows at Meridian Records. They want to hear more. They're talking about a development deal, Jacob. For me. For the songs."

Jacob sat on the edge of his bed, phone pressed to his ear, an unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest. "That's amazing, Jet. You deserve it."

"I couldn't have done it without you," she said. "Your songs--"

"Our arrangements," he corrected gently. "But your interpretations. Your voice."

"We should celebrate," she insisted. "Tomorrow night? That little place on Fourth Street with the good pasta?"

Jacob agreed, surprising himself with his own genuine enthusiasm.

The restaurant was more upscale than Jacob usually frequented, but the dim lighting and corner booth made him feel less exposed than he'd feared. Jet arrived in a vintage dress that sparkled subtly under the restaurant lights, her usual composure giving way to barely contained excitement.

"I brought something," she said, reaching into her bag as they waited for their meals. She passed him an envelope. "Open it."

Inside was a contract, meticulously drafted, assigning him co-writing credit on all three songs, along with a percentage of any future royalties. "I know you said they're mine," Jet explained, "but this makes it official--and fair. If anything ever comes from these songs, you'll be properly compensated."

Jacob stared at the document, touched by her integrity. "You didn't have to do this."

"Yes, I did," she said simply. "That's how this works--how it should work. Partners respect each other's contributions."

They signed the contract over dessert, Jacob's scarred hand sliding across the paper while Jet held it steady. Something about the ritual felt significant--not just the legal recognition, but the acknowledgment of what they'd created together.

The weeks that followed were a whirlwind--for Jet. She met with producers, lawyers, A&R representatives. Jacob returned to his routine--welding by day, painting by evening, busking on weekends. She called occasionally with updates, her excitement palpable even through the phone line. Once, she invited him to sit in on a meeting with the producers, but he declined politely, knowing his scarred face would only distract from their focus on Jet and her talent.

When the contract came--a real recording contract from Meridian Records--Jet insisted on showing it to him. They met at Riverbank Coffee, the place seeming smaller somehow, less significant against the backdrop of her expanding future.

"They love the songs," she told him, unable to stop smiling. "Especially 'Hidden Light.' They think it could be the single."

Jacob nodded, genuinely pleased for her. "I'm not surprised. It always was the strongest."

"There's one more thing," Jet said, her expression growing more serious. "The label wants me to come to Chicago. That's where their main studio is. They're talking about starting recording next month."

"Chicago," Jacob repeated, the word falling between them like a stone in still water. "That's... a big move."

"It is," Jet agreed. "But it's the opportunity I've been working toward for years. The chance to record professionally, to put my music out into the world."

"You should take it," Jacob said without hesitation. "You have to take it."

"I know," she admitted. "I already said yes. I leave in two weeks."

They spent those two weeks meeting when they could--not to work on music, but simply to cement their brief friendship before geography pulled it apart. Jet came to the farmer's market on his final Saturday before her departure, listening to his set from her now-familiar spot at the edge of the crowd. The elderly woman was there too, as always, and Jacob wondered if she would still visit when her songs eventually played on the radio.

Their goodbye was brief, neither of them comfortable with prolonged emotion. Jet hugged him quickly outside The Blue Note after her farewell performance, pressing a package into his hands.

"Don't open it until I'm gone," she instructed. "And Jacob? Thank you. For everything."

Then she was walking away, her silhouette receding into the night, bound for a future bright with possibility while he remained in place, anchored by choice and circumstance.

The package contained a portable cassette recorder--newer and better than his old one--along with blank tapes and a note: "Keep making music. Keep sharing it. Someone is always listening."

Jacob placed it carefully beside his bed, a tangible reminder of their brief collaboration. Then he got up the next morning at dawn as always, made his coffee black, played his guitar for precisely one hour, completed his exercise routine, and went to work.

He returned to his routine seamlessly, as if the weeks with Jet had been a detour rather than a new direction. Yet small changes persisted--he spoke more at work, accepting Martinez's long-standing invitation to join the crew for Friday beers once a month.

Six months later, "Hidden Light" began playing on local radio stations. Jacob heard it first while welding, the shop's radio tuned as always to the adult contemporary station that served as inoffensive background noise. The opening notes caught his attention immediately. Jet's voice had been polished by professional production, the arrangement subtly altered to appeal to mainstream listeners.

One of his coworkers noticed his sudden stillness, MIG gun suspended mid-weld.

"You okay, Whitney?" Dawson called over.

Jacob resumed welding, the white glare reflecting in his hood. "Fine," he replied. "Just like this song."

In the months that followed, he received occasional royalty checks--modest sums that he deposited without fanfare. Once, a postcard arrived from Chicago, showing the city skyline at night. On the back, in Jet's distinctive handwriting: "Still singing our songs. Still grateful. Still listening."

Jacob pinned it above his easel, next to his sketches of market-goers and city scenes. Then he opened his notebook to a blank page and began making notes for another melody.

Chapter Nine