When Rosie and Trina went to the snack bar attached to the bowling alley to load up on the type of food that I’d come to realize I no longer had the metabolism to support, I did a bit of digging into Rosie’s YouTube channel. I could still barely believe my eyes. She was far, far closer to the success she was seeking than she even knew.

Hundreds of thousands of followers stalked Rosie’s every digital move. They consumed her comments, posts, and attention with a ravenous appetite. There were people that posted every day, begging for more videos, more songs. Her fans wanted to know when they could buy her albums, and when she’d tour in their town. Rosie was legitimately internet famous.

I couldn’t resist listening to at least one of her recordings. I wanted to choose the most popular one she’d ever posted, but by accident I selected a cover song. The video queued up to reveal Rosie sitting in the bedroom I’d glimpsed in her now off-limits apartment. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, with a small drum machine to her left, and an acoustic guitar in her lap. Her hair was a couple of inches shorter in the video, indicating that the video must have been recorded at least a few months ago. There was no spoken introduction.

My jaw was slack. Since the first chords strummed lazily on her guitar, I’d been utterly transfixed by Rosie. I’d honestly thought that You Can Leave Your Hat On by Joe Cocker couldn’t get any sexier than it had been during the movie 9 1/2 Weeks. I was wrong. Watching her sing that song with the stripped-down instrumentation and blushing vulnerability of a virgin, was something else.

Rosie returned before I had the chance to listen to the whole thing, and I thumbed the button on my phone before she saw me watching. She flashed a smile at me and offered me some of her nachos. She truly had no idea what she was on the verge of.

The song was a classic, and the arrangement was spare in its instrumentation and presentation, but the sound of her voice. Her high, ethereal voice was the perfect counterpoint to the throbbing drum machine and crystalline guitar. Rosie’s music was incredibly compelling.

Unsurprisingly, talent agents see a lot of talent. It’s an integral part of the job. But only a tiny, little fraction of that talent ever goes far beyond the shower. Every now and then, however, an act comes along that makes all the rest of it look mediocre and dull.

Rosie was that special, one in a million talent. She had the looks, the talent, and the drive. But more than any of that, she had that mysterious unnamed quality that was impossible to pin down and harder to find. If anyone had a shot in this business, it was Rosie.

Ross was crazy to discourage his daughter from singing. It would be a crime if she did anything but make more music. Rosie shouldn’t be allowed to let go of her dream. She needed to hold onto it, chase it, and make it hers. And I felt the exact same way about her.