Jacobs Story Ch 11 13

Chapter Eleven

Jacob arrived at the community college forty minutes early, too restless to remain in his apartment until the appointed time. The campus was alive with mid-afternoon activity--students hurrying between classes, lounging on the quad, studying at outdoor tables. He felt out of place among them, too old to be a student, too young to be a professor, his scarred face drawing the usual quick glances before eyes slid away.

Rather than heading directly to the practice room, he took a seat at the campus coffee shop, a bright space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a small garden. He ordered a simple black coffee and found a back corner table. His guitar case rested against his leg as he sipped his coffee, watching the ebb and flow of students.

Almost unconsciously, his hands reached for the case. He removed his guitar and positioned it on his lap, not to perform but simply to feel the familiar weight of it, to ground himself in routine before venturing into the unknown territory of this new collaboration.

His fingers began moving across the strings, idly at first, then with more purpose as a particular melody took shape. It was one of the songs he'd marked the night before--what he called "The Father Song," though its actual title was "Watching You Fly." He played softly, barely audible above the coffee shop chatter, working through the bridge that had always given him trouble, finding a new approach that seemed to resolve the tension more naturally.

"That's beautiful."

Jacob looked up, startled to find Lydia standing beside his table. She was dressed simply in jeans and a gray sweater, her hair pulled back in a casual ponytail, looking more like a graduate student than a rock star. Only the quality of her boots--handcrafted Italian leather--hinted at her actual status.

"You're early," he said, immediately feeling foolish for stating the obvious.

"So are you." She smiled slightly, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. "May I?"

Jacob nodded, setting his guitar aside. "I was just working through a song I thought might fit your voice."

"Don't stop on my account," Lydia said, settling into the chair. "What's the tune called?"

"'Watching You Fly,'" Jacob replied. "But I always think of it as 'The Father Song.'"

"Why is that?"

Jacob hesitated, unused to explaining the origins of his compositions to anyone other than an audience at arm's length. He took a breath and explained, his voice perfectly unemotional, as if stating facts to clarify a technical point.

"I never knew my parents. I was abandoned as an infant." He didn't mention the subsequent journey through foster care and group homes, the series of temporary attachments broken almost as soon as they formed. "So, sometimes I watch families when I'm out and about. Trying to understand them."

Lydia's expression remained neutral, though her eyes held a new attentiveness.

"I was at the park last summer," Jacob continued. "There was a father with his little girl, maybe six years old. The quality of her trust in her father was breathtaking--absolute and unconditional. The dad watched her on the monkey bars and daring slides and on the swings where she went so very high." His voice softened slightly, the only sign that the memory had affected him. "He never interfered, just kept her in his sight, ready if she needed him but giving her space to be brave."

Jacob reached for his coffee, using the moment to regain his emotional distance. "The song is about the daughter's memories of that day, of making her daddy proud. About how that kind of loving shapes a person forever after."

He didn't notice Lydia's reaction to the story--the way her fingers had tightened around her cup, the slight change in her breathing. Jacob simply pushed the handwritten score across the table toward her, positioning his guitar again.

"The verses are from the daughter's perspective as a child," he explained, slipping into the more comfortable territory of musical structure. "The chorus shifts to her as an adult, recognizing how those moments crafted her confidence."

Jacob began to play, the melody gentle but with an underlying strength. The first time through, he sang it himself, his voice carrying the story of a small girl's adventure on the playground, her father's watchful presence, the exhilaration of being both protected and free.

As he reached the chorus a second time, Lydia joined in, her voice blending with his in perfect harmony. Jacob glanced up, surprised by the richness of their combined sound--her trained soprano complementing his rougher baritone in ways he hadn't anticipated.

It was only then that he noticed the tears streaming down her face.

Jacob stopped playing abruptly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"No," Lydia interrupted, wiping quickly at her cheeks. "Please don't stop. It's perfect." She took a shaky breath. "It's just that my father... he was a lot like that. Always there, always watching, never hovering." She smiled through her tears. "He passed away three years ago. Cancer."

Understanding dawned on Jacob. "I didn't know. I wouldn't have chosen this song first if..."

"It's exactly the right song," Lydia insisted. "That's the point of music, isn't it? To connect, to make us feel something real." She reached for the score, studying it more closely. "The bridge--that's where you were when I walked up--it needs something. A lift."

Just like that, they shifted from emotional moment to technical collaboration, Lydia's training allowing her to articulate what Jacob had been struggling with. He adjusted the chord progression as she suggested, finding the resolution that had eluded him.

"Try it now," she urged.

Jacob played the revised bridge, and this time it flowed perfectly into the final chorus. Lydia joined again, her voice steady now despite the lingering moisture in her eyes. Several students at nearby tables had stopped their conversations to listen, drawn by the unexpected private concert in their midst.

As the final notes faded, Jacob felt an unfamiliar sensation--not just satisfaction with a well-constructed song, but connection through it. Lydia wasn't just singing his melody; she was inhabiting the story, bringing to it her own history, her own understanding of a father's love.

"That's the one," she said quietly. "That's the first single."

Jacob blinked, surprised by her certainty. "We haven't even looked at the others yet."

"We will," Lydia assured him. "But this one," she tapped the score, "this is special. This is what I meant about authenticity. It's specific enough to be true but universal enough that anyone who hears it will find their own story in it."

A small crowd had gathered around their table, drawn by the impromptu performance. Sensing Jacob's growing discomfort with the attention, Lydia gathered her things and stood.

"Maybe we should head to the practice room," she suggested. "More privacy there."

Jacob nodded gratefully, carefully returning his guitar to its case. As they made their way across campus, Lydia walking slightly ahead to deflect attention from his scarred face--a courtesy he noticed and appreciated--she glanced back at him.

"You know what's remarkable about that song, Jacob? It's written from a place of longing, not bitterness. Most people who grew up without parents would write about absence, about what was missing. You wrote about what could be, what should be."

Jacob had never considered this aspect of his composition process, had never analyzed why he wrote what he did. "I just write what I see," he said simply.

"That's why your songs feel true," Lydia replied. "Even when they're imagined."

They reached the practice room, a modest space with a piano, sound equipment, and blessed privacy. As Jacob set up his materials, arranging notebooks and sheets of music on the piano bench, he realized something had shifted between them. The tears Lydia had shed over his song had created a different kind of trust--not just artistic respect but emotional understanding.

"I brought about twenty songs I thought might work for you," Jacob said, gesturing to the carefully organized stack. "Different themes, different styles. Some finished, some still need work."

Lydia nodded, but her attention remained on "The Father Song." "We'll get to all of them. But first, can we work through this one again? I have some ideas for the arrangement--maybe a subtle string section under the final chorus, and the bridge could use a piano counterpoint."

For the next three hours, they lost themselves in the work, in the delicate process of taking a personal creation and shaping it for a wider audience without losing its essence. By the time they finally moved on to the second song, "The Father Song" had been transformed--still recognizably Jacob's composition but now carrying Lydia's influence as well, her musical sensibility enhancing rather than overshadowing his intent.

As they worked, Jacob found himself thinking about the little girl in the park, about how she would never know that her afternoon of play had inspired a song that might soon be heard by thousands. About how observation could become art, and art could become connection. About how his private act of witnessing others' lives was, perhaps, its own form of participation in the human experience.

"Hey," Lydia said, noticing his momentary distraction. "Where'd you go?"

Jacob shook his head slightly. "Just thinking about how songs find their way to where they need to be."

Lydia smiled. "Like they have lives of their own, independent of us?"

"Something like that."

"Well, this one" she tapped the score of "The Father Song" with genuine affection, "found me exactly when I needed it. Thank you for that, Jacob."

For once, Jacob didn't deflect the gratitude, didn't minimize his contribution. He simply nodded, acknowledging the gift given and received, the unexpected bridge built between his solitary observations and another person's lived experience.

They returned to their work, the practice room filled with song born from Jacob's years of watching the world from the outside, now finding their way in.

Chapter Twelve

Lydia slid the keycard into her hotel room door, riding a creative high unlike anything she'd experienced in years. The three hours with Jacob had flown by, each song he shared revealing new depths to his talent. By the end of their session, they'd worked through five compositions, each one striking a different emotional chord, each one feeling more right for her solo project than anything Arclight had recorded in their last two albums.

"The Father Song" remained the standout, the one she couldn't stop hearing in her head as she made her way back to the Marriott. She hummed the bridge under her breath as she entered her suite, tossing her bag onto the plush sofa and kicking off her boots.

Only then did she notice the buzz of missed calls on the phone, which she'd turned off during their session. Sixteen missed calls. Twenty-seven text messages. Unusual, even for her.

Curious, she turned the phone on. Almost immediately, it began buzzing with incoming notifications, a cascade that didn't slow for nearly a minute. Her publicist. Her manager. Her bandmates. Friends from across the industry. Music journalists.

"What the hell?" she muttered, opening the most recent text from her manager, Shawn.

CALL ME NOW. You're everywhere. Not sure if this was planned, but if it was, it's brilliant.

Attached was a link to a YouTube video titled "Lydia Summers + Mystery Scarred Man - Heartbreaking New Song (Campus Coffee Shop)."

It already had over 500,000 views.

Lydia sank onto the edge of the bed, her heart suddenly racing. She clicked the link, and there they were--she and Jacob at the coffee shop table, his scarred profile partially visible as he played guitar, her face in full view as she joined him for the chorus of "The Father Song," tears streaming down her cheeks.

The video quality wasn't professional, clearly captured on someone's phone from a nearby table, but the audio was surprisingly clear. Their voices blended perfectly, the raw emotion in the performance undeniable. The comments section was exploding with reactions:

Who is this guy with Lydia??? That voice!!!

I'm not crying, you're crying

Is this what she's doing after Arclight? Because YES PLEASE.

Those scars, that voice... this is like some modern Beauty and the Beast but make it folk-rock

Lydia winced at the last comment, knowing how Jacob would hate the reduction of his appearance to a fairy tale trope. But the overwhelming sentiment was positive--the song moved people, by their performance, by the unexpected intimacy of the moment.

She quickly searched Twitter and Instagram, finding dozens more videos and posts. Different angles, different portions of the song, all capturing the same authentic moment between two musicians connecting through music. Some focused on her tears, others on Jacob's haunting lyrics, still others speculating about their relationship, both personal and professional.

Her phone rang--Shawn again. She answered, her mind still processing the implications.

"Please tell me this was strategic," her manager said without preamble.

"It wasn't," Lydia replied honestly. "We were just working through a song. I had no idea anyone was recording."

"Well, someone was. Several someones, actually. You're trending, Lydia. #FatherSong is all over Twitter. People are already asking when they can buy it."

Lydia closed her eyes, thinking of Jacob--intensely private, cautious about sharing his work, now suddenly thrust into the spotlight without warning or consent.

"Shawn, I need to call you back. There's someone I need to speak with first."

"The guy in the video? Jacob Whitney, right? The songwriter Jet's been raving about?"

Lydia wasn't surprised Shawn had already identified Jacob. "Yes. This wasn't what we agreed to. I need to talk to him before we make any statements or decisions."

"Fine, but don't wait too long. This kind of organic viral moment is gold, especially with your solo announcement coming up. The label's already called twice."

After hanging up, Lydia paced the hotel suite, processing the unexpected turn of events. What had been a private creative session, a delicate building of trust, had suddenly become very public. Part of her--the career-minded professional who understood the music industry--recognized the potential benefit. This kind of authentic moment, unplanned and emotionally raw, was the perfect introduction to her new musical direction.

But another part--the artist who had just spent hours with a man who guarded his privacy fiercely--felt protective of Jacob and the fragile trust they'd established.

She tried calling him, but the call went straight to voicemail. Not surprising--he'd mentioned he often kept his phone off while working on music.

As she waited to hear from him, Lydia found herself drawn back to the videos, watching their impromptu performance from multiple angles. In each, she saw something she'd missed in the moment: Jacob's brief look of surprise when she joined in, the instinctive way they adjusted to each other's phrasing, the moment when her tears began and his expression shifted subtly from concentration to concern.

What struck her most, reviewing the footage, was the quality of Jacob's songwriting. She'd worked with professional songwriters for years--people who crafted hits with mathematical precision, who knew exactly how to structure a chorus for maximum enjoyment. Jacob's approach was entirely different. His songs weren't constructed; they were excavated, unearthed from careful observation and deep empathy. They felt discovered rather than designed.

"He's a genius," she murmured to herself, the realization settling with absolute certainty. "An actual, fucking genius."

It wasn't just "The Father Song." Every piece he'd shared that afternoon had the same quality--specific yet universal, personal yet accessible. And the way he spoke about his process, so matter-of-fact about watching families because he'd never had one, about observing human connections from the outside--it gave his work a unique perspective, at once intimate and anthropological.

Her phone rang again. This time, it was Melissa, her publicist.

"Please tell me you've seen what's happening," Melissa began.

"I have."

"Good. We need to get ahead of this. I'm drafting a statement now. Something about exploring new musical directions, collaborating with emerging songwriters, honoring your father's memory--"

"No," Lydia interrupted firmly. "No statements yet. Not until I've spoken with Jacob."

"Who?"

"The songwriter. The 'scarred man' everyone's speculating about. This wasn't planned, Melissa. He didn't consent to being recorded or having his work shared this way."

There was a pause on the other end. "Oh. Well, that complicates things. But Lydia, you need to understand--this is happening with or without official comment. The video from the coffee shop has passed a million views in the last hour. People are already making covers of the song based on what they can hear in the video."

Lydia felt a mix of excitement and dread. The song deserved to be heard--Jacob's work deserved the recognition--but not like this, not without his consent, not with his physical appearance becoming fodder for social media commentary.

"Just hold off," she insisted. "Give me until tomorrow."

After ending the call, Lydia opened her notebook, the one where she'd made notes during their session. Jacob's carefully handwritten chord progressions were interspersed with her own notations about arrangement ideas, vocal approaches, production possibilities. Looking at the pages filled her with a renewed sense of purpose.

This project--their collaboration--represented everything she'd been seeking in her solo career: authenticity, emotional depth, musical integrity. It was worth protecting, worth approaching with care rather than opportunism.

Her phone buzzed with a text. Jacob, finally.

Just saw the videos. Not sure what to think. Can we talk?

Lydia replied immediately:

Of course. Where?

Not in public. Not anymore. My place. I'll send the address.

The response surprised her. After his reluctance to meet at his apartment before, this invitation represented significant trust--or perhaps resignation to the fact that privacy was no longer an option.

As she gathered her things to meet him, the irony struck Lydia. She'd spent years pursuing fame, working toward the spotlight that now shone so brightly on her. Jacob had spent years avoiding attention, crafting his art in relative obscurity, sharing it only on his own careful terms.

Now, an unplanned moment of connection between them had changed everything. Their coffee shop performance--raw, unpolished, emotionally naked--had resonated with people in a way that felt both wonderful and terrifying. It was, Lydia realized, exactly the authentic musical moment she'd been craving, arriving in the least expected way.

She glanced at her phone one last time before leaving--more notifications, more calls, more evidence that something significant had begun. Whatever happened next, she knew with absolute certainty that her musical path had irrevocably changed the moment Jacob Whitney had shared "The Father Song" with her.

And despite the complications, despite the invasion of privacy, despite the uncertain path ahead, she couldn't bring herself to regret it.

Chapter Thirteen

Jacob didn't know what to think or how he should feel. The texts had started innocuously enough--first from Elena at The Blue Note, then from a couple of the regular market-goers who had his number. By the time he'd checked his phone after the session with Lydia, there were dozens of notifications, links to videos, questions about "that song with Lydia Summers."