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Bobby’s still in the rocking chair when Rose returns to the bedroom, his head ducked low but the soft lilt of his singing voice proving he’s still awake.
“Hey, rockstar,” Rose whispers, rapping her knuckles on the doorframe to get his attention. “Time for bed?”
Bobby looks down at the baby in his arms—he hasn’t put her down since he got home from the hospital, having paid off her mother not to give her up for adoption (after having paid her off six months ago to have her at all). “In a minute,” he promises, despite the exhaustion clear in his voice. “I want her to fall asleep first so she doesn’t think I abandoned her.”
Rose bites back a smile, sad though she is at the idea. “What was that song you were singing?”
Bobby goes red around the cheeks. “Oh, it’s just… one of L—my songs. I haven’t… recorded it yet.”
“Well, you should, it’s pretty.”
“Thanks.” Bobby holds his daughter—as of yet unnamed—a little closer, presses the gentlest of kisses to her forehead. “I guess I should put her down, huh?”
“I can do it,” Rose offers, stepping forward, but freezes when Bobby goes tense and territorial, hunching over the baby in his arms like he’s afraid she’s going to kidnap her. “Bobby, baby.”
He looks hunted, haunted, and so very tired. But when she says his name like that, he lets his defenses go down and carefully hands over his baby girl. “Sorry. I’m just…”
“I know,” Rose assures him, and kisses his cheek. “You need some good sleep.”
Bobby chuckles dryly. “Yeah, I’ll try.”
“Good boy,” Rose murmurs, and tucks the baby closer in the crook of her arm as she turns to go. “Come on, sweet girl, let’s get you to bed. Good night, Bobby.”
“Rose,” Bobby stops her just as she’s reaching the doorway. She turns. He’s got his head ducked low, like he’s embarrassed, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. “You should call me Trevor.”
She can’t help it; she makes a face. She’s never understood Bobby’s insistence on using a stage name, but at least he’s never brought it home from the record label. “What?”
At least he has the decency to look bashful. “My name is Trevor,” he repeats. “That’s how the media knows me, that’s what my money’s under. Now that I have a daughter, I… I need to be just one person, for her. I need to be the successful celebrity, not… the boy who lost everything.”
Rose’s heart breaks. Her instinct is to protest, to tell him he can be both, that he shouldn't be ashamed of the pain he grew out of, that he should want to share each and every part of himself with his beautiful baby girl.
But as Rose looks down at her, tiny and pink-faced and starting to fuss, she understands why Trevor Wilson needs to bury Bobby Shaw once and for all. It’s been hard enough between the three of them keeping Bobby’s history with Sunset Curve out of the press. A little girl growing up hearing stories of her uncles Luke, Alex, and Reggie will only make that harder.
But Rose mourns Bobby’s chance to bring that part of himself back to life.
“Good night, Trevor,” she amends, watches him relax at her deference to his wishes, and takes his daughter upstairs to the nursery where Ray set up a second cradle this morning.
Julie’s not crying, but she’s clearly awake, waving a chubby fist at the butterfly mobile spinning above her crib and making soft babbling noises. Rose leans over her to kiss her forehead and tilts Trevor’s baby over the side of the crib into Julie’s view.
“Mi mariposa,” she says, smiling, “Meet your new sister.”