Chapter 11

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...”