Chapter 6

As Jacob finished his final song of the afternoon at the market, he found himself glancing over at Jet more frequently. Throughout his set, she had remained attentive, sometimes closing her eyes to focus on the music, occasionally nodding in appreciation at a particular lyric or chord progression. Her presence was both unnerving and oddly motivating—he played with more intention, more precision, knowing there were now ears that truly understood what he was attempting to create.

As he began packing up his guitar, his mind kept returning to the notebooks stacked in his apartment—songs he’d written but never performed, melodies that had always seemed to call for a different voice than his own. He had some songs that might fit her perfectly, compositions that had emerged from his imagination but never quite settled comfortably in his own repertoire.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Jacob approached Jet again, his fingers nervously adjusting the latches on his guitar case.

“I, uh—” he began, clearing his throat. “I just remembered. I have some songs that might fit your voice. Three of them, actually.”

Jet raised an eyebrow, looking intrigued. “Really?”

“They’ve been sitting in my notebooks,” Jacob continued, his words coming more quickly now. “Never felt right when I sang them. But your voice—the way you phrase things—they might work for you.”

“I’d love to hear them,” she said, smiling.

“And also,” he added, before his courage could desert him, “the collaboration idea would be worth doing. Only I don’t know how. I’ve never...” He trailed off, unsure how to explain that music had always been his solitary refuge, a conversation with himself rather than with others.

Jet seemed to understand without him finishing the thought. “We could start small. Meet somewhere, share some ideas, see what happens. No pressure.”

“There’s a coffee shop on Elm Street.” Jacob surprised himself with the suggestion. “Tomorrow afternoon? I could bring the songs, maybe a tape player, so you could listen.”

“Four o’clock?” Jet suggested.

Jacob nodded, already mentally cataloging which songs to bring, how best to present them, what he would need to prepare.

“It’s a date then,” Jet said, then quickly added, “A musical date. For collaboration.”

“Right,” Jacob agreed, relief and anxiety mingling in his chest. “For the music.”

Sunday afternoon found Jacob arriving at Riverbank Coffee twenty minutes early, securing a corner table away from the main traffic of the small shop. The place was a local institution, housed in a converted Victorian home with wooden floors that creaked pleasantly and large windows that filled the space with natural light. Jazz played softly through hidden speakers—not loud enough to interfere with conversation but present enough to fill any awkward silences.

He’d spent the morning in a state of focused preparation: selecting three songs from his collection that he thought would suit Jet’s voice, recording simple demos on his old cassette player, neatly copying the lyrics and chord progressions onto fresh paper. He’d chosen carefully—one bluesy number about resilience, one more contemplative piece about seeing beauty in unexpected places, and a third with jazz influences that spoke of finding one’s voice in a noisy world.

As he arranged his materials on the table—the portable tape player, a pair of headphones, the lyric sheets, his notebook for additional notes—Jacob tried to ignore the nervous flutter in his stomach. This wasn’t a date; it was a professional meeting between two musicians. Yet he’d still found himself spending more time than usual selecting his clothes—settling on a dark blue button-down that Jackson’s wife had once commented made his eyes “pop” during a company Christmas party, paired with his least-worn jeans.

At precisely four o’clock, the bell above the door chimed, and Jet entered. She moved with the same quiet confidence he’d noticed at the market, her gaze sweeping the room before settling on him. Today she wore a vintage-inspired jumpsuit in deep burgundy, her hair pulled back with a patterned scarf, silver earrings catching the light as she made her way through the scattered tables.

“Hi,” she said simply as she reached him, slipping into the chair across from his. “Nice spot.”

“They don’t mind if people stay a while,” Jacob explained, suddenly aware of how prepared he looked with all his materials arranged before him. “And the coffee’s good.”

“Clearly, you’ve done this before,” Jet observed, nodding toward his organized setup.

Jacob shook his head. “Never. I just—” he hesitated, then decided on honesty. “I don’t like being unprepared.”

“I can respect that,” she said with a small smile. “Mind if I grab a coffee before we start?”

While Jet ordered her drink—an iced chai latte with an extra shot of espresso—Jacob took several deep breaths, reminding himself why he was here. The music. Focus on the music. When she returned, settling comfortably into her chair, he found his professional voice.

“I brought three songs,” he explained, sliding the lyric sheets across the table. “They’re all finished pieces, but I’ve never performed them. They always felt like they needed...” he searched for the right words, “ ... a different perspective.”

Jet examined the lyrics, her expression thoughtful. “These are good,” she said after a moment. “Really good. The imagery is...”

“You haven’t heard them yet,” Jacob pointed out.

“True,” she acknowledged with a small laugh. “But lyrics this strong usually come with melodies to match.” She tapped the headphones. “May I?”