Jacob's 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."

It was a measure of how confused he was that he invited her over to his apartment without a thought. The words had typed themselves before he'd considered the implications: Not in public. Not anymore. My place. I'll send the address.

Only after sending it did he realize what he'd done--invited someone into his sanctuary, his carefully guarded private space. But there was no taking it back now, and honestly, where else could they talk? The videos had transformed him overnight from anonymous scarred musician to "Lydia Summers' mysterious new collaborator." His regular haunts were no longer safe from curious eyes.

Luckily, Jacob was a disciplined, tidy person. His apartment was always spotless, a habit ingrained from years in group homes where personal space was limited and cleanliness rigidly enforced. He moved through the rooms quickly, not to clean but to assess what he was revealing of himself.

His bedroom contained only the essentials--the bottom half of an old army bunk bed that he'd found at a surplus store, a simple dresser, a small bookshelf filled with dog-eared paperbacks arranged by author. No photographs, no decorations, nothing that spoke of connection to others. Just calm, organized functionality.

The second bedroom had been converted to his art studio. Sketches covered one wall. Canvases leaned against the other walls--portraits mostly, strangers captured in moments of unguarded emotion. The elderly woman from the market appeared in several, her face reimagined across different eras of her life. A half-finished painting stood on the easel--Jacob's interpretation of the father and daughter from the park, the inspiration for "The Father Song." He considered covering it, then decided against it. If Lydia was entering his world, she might as well see it completely.

The main living area was his music section--guitar stands holding his acoustic and a rarely-used electric, shelves of vinyl records organized by genre and era, his old cassette player, and a small digital recording setup. Notebooks filled one entire bookshelf, each labeled by date, containing years of careful observation transformed into song.

Jacob was just putting on water for coffee when the doorbell rang. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for this new level of exposure, and opened the door.

Lydia stood in the hallway, dressed casually in jeans and an oversized sweater, her hair tied back in a loose knot.

Jacob stepped back, wordlessly inviting her in. As she crossed the threshold, he was suddenly, acutely aware of his scars--not because Lydia was staring at them (she wasn't), but because the videos had made them a subject of public discussion in a way they hadn't been since the attack itself.

"Nice place," Lydia said, glancing around the apartment. Her eyes lingered on the wall of vinyl. "Impressive collection."

"Thanks," Jacob replied, taking the bag of pastries and setting it on the small kitchen counter. "Coffee? It's almost ready."

"Please."

An awkward silence fell as Jacob prepared two mugs of coffee. Lydia moved slowly around the living room, studying his music collection, the arrangement of his instruments, the stacks of notebooks.

"These are all songs?" she asked, gesturing to the shelves of notebooks.

Jacob nodded. "Since I was fourteen."

She let out a low whistle. "That's... prolific."

"It's just what I do," he said simply, bringing the coffee mugs to the small table by the window. "I observe. I write."

Lydia accepted her mug with a grateful nod, but her attention had shifted to the half-open door of the other room. "What...?"

"My painting room," Jacob confirmed. "You can look if you want."

She hesitated, seeming to understand the significance of the invitation. "Are you sure?"

"You're already here," he said with a slight shrug. "Might as well see it all."

Lydia set down her coffee and moved toward the door, pushing it open fully. Jacob stood in the doorway, watching her reaction as she took in his other form of creative expression.

"Jacob," she breathed, moving among the canvases. "These are extraordinary."

He said nothing, allowing her the space to absorb the images--strangers on buses, market-goers, the elderly woman in various settings, children playing, couples arguing, individuals lost in private moments of joy or sorrow.

When she reached the easel, she stopped. "Is this the father and daughter?" she said softly. "From the park?"

"Yes."

"You didn't just write about them. You captured them here, too?"

Jacob nodded. "Different mediums, same observation."

Lydia turned to him, her expression thoughtful. "This is how you see the world, isn't it? Not just passing through it but really seeing it. Capturing it. Preserving moments that most people miss."

It was the most accurate description of his process that anyone had ever offered. Not creating--witnessing. Not inventing--honoring what already existed.

"I suppose so," he said.

They returned to the living room, the initial awkwardness partially dissolved by Lydia's genuine appreciation of his work. As they sat at the small table, coffee mugs steaming between them, Jacob finally addressed the reason for her visit.

"The videos," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I don't know what to think about them."

Lydia nodded, feeling a dawning understanding of careful privacy being invaded. "I didn't know anyone was recording us. I'm sorry about that."

"It's not your fault," Jacob replied. "But it changes things."

"It does," she agreed. "My team is already fielding calls from the label, from media. Everyone wants to know about 'The Father Song,' about you, about our collaboration."

Jacob felt his chest tighten. "I don't do media. I don't do interviews or photo shoots or any of that."

"I know," Lydia said gently. "And I would never ask you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. But the song... Jacob, people are connecting with it in a powerful way. The comments, the responses--it's resonating with people."

He couldn't deny the validation this provided--his observation transformed into art that touched others, that made them feel something real. Isn't that what he'd always hoped for with his music? Yet the exposure felt terrifying, the spotlight too bright, too sudden.

"What do you think we should do?" he asked, surprising himself with the question. The "we" was new--an acknowledgment that whatever happened next would be a shared decision.

Lydia considered her response carefully. "I think we have options. We could release 'The Father Song' officially, proper recording, proper credit. Your name on it as songwriter, mine as performer. You wouldn't have to do any publicity if you don't want to."

Jacob nodded, considering this approach. "And the other songs? The ones we worked on today?"

"Same process. We record an album. You're credited as songwriter, maybe co-producer if you want that involvement. I handle the public-facing aspects." She paused, then added, "Or we could do nothing. Let this moment pass, continue working together privately, release music when we're ready on our own terms."

That she offered this second option, that she didn't automatically assume he'd want to capitalize on the viral moment, increased Jacob's trust in her intentions.

"What would you prefer?" he asked.

Lydia smiled slightly. "Honestly? I'd like to record 'The Father Song' properly, release it soon. Not because of the viral attention, but because it deserves to be heard in its best form. The arrangement we worked out today is special, Jacob. It could mean something to a lot of people."

Jacob was quiet for a long moment, looking out the window at the city below, thinking about change and choice and control. About bread cast upon waters, about seeds planted without expectation of harvest. About songs finding their way to where they needed to be.

"Okay," he said finally. "Let's record it. Just that song, for now. See how it goes."

The relief and excitement on Lydia's face was immediate. "Really?"

"Really. But I have conditions."

"Name them."

"My privacy remains intact. No photos of me in promotional materials. No pressuring me to do interviews or public appearances. The music stands on its own." He paused, then added, "And I want approval on the final mix. The song needs to sound the way we intended, not what some producer thinks will sell."

Lydia nodded, accepting each point. "Absolutely. Anything else?"

Jacob thought for a moment, then said, "I want it understood that this is a collaboration. Not you covering my song, not me writing for you. Us creating something together."

"That's exactly how I see it too," Lydia assured him. "Equal partners creatively, even if I'm the public face."

Something eased in Jacob's chest--not quite relief, but perhaps acceptance of a new direction. "Then we have a deal."

As they discussed logistics--which studio to use, when to record, how to approach the arrangement--Jacob found himself watching Lydia in his space, her presence both strange and somehow not unwelcome. She moved with respect for his belongings, her comments about his music collection and art reflecting genuine appreciation rather than polite interest.

For the first time in years, Jacob had allowed someone to see the full scope of his creative life--not just his music, but his painting, his living space, the carefully ordered world he'd built around himself. It was terrifying and oddly liberating, like stepping into a cold shower--the initial shock giving way to a bracing clarity.

Later, after Lydia had left with plans to meet at the studio the following week, Jacob stood at his window watching the city lights emerge as dusk settled. The videos were still out there, still being shared and discussed. His private creative process had been unexpectedly thrust into public view.

Yet instead of the panic he might have expected, he felt something closer to curiosity--about what might happen next, about how "The Father Song" might change in its journey from personal observation to public expression, about how this unexpected exposure might reshape his carefully constructed life.

He turned from the window and picked up his guitar, fingers finding the melody of "The Father Song," but with subtle variations--adjustments inspired by Lydia's suggestions, by the way her voice had complemented his, by the possibility of strings and piano that she'd mentioned.

The song was evolving, becoming something beyond his original vision. Something collaborative. Something shared.

And for now, at least, that felt right.