𝙄𝙍𝙄𝙎

Something New

The elevator dinged open with a soft chime, and Dave stepped out into the hallway of 30 Rockefeller Plaza, clutching the strap of his worn drum bag like it was a life raft.

He was early for rehearsal. Way too early. The soundstage was still being prepped when he walked in, empty except for a few techs and a haze of stage light warming the air like fog.

It wasn't long before they started arriving.

Tom Petty walked in with a coffee and a smile like he'd been born on a record sleeve. Mike Campbell gave Dave a casual nod and a "Hey, man," while Howie Epstein lit a cigarette and offered one with a raised eyebrow. The Heartbreakers weren't just cool—they were effortlessly cool. The kind of cool that didn't try.

Dave? He was sweating through his Motörhead t-shirt, trying not to drop his sticks.

They ran through the first song, and Dave kept his eyes locked on Tom's boots, too nervous to look up. He hadn't played live since Nirvana. Since Kurt. Every beat felt like balancing on a wire strung between grief and adrenaline.

But by the second take, something began to shift. The grooves settled. His body remembered what it meant to belong in a song. By the third, he even cracked a joke during a pause. Tom laughed.

That night, back in the hotel, Dave couldn't sleep. His limbs buzzed like he'd swallowed a hive. The stage lights still ghosted behind his eyelids.

*

Barrett had made popcorn and burned it. Iris didn't care. They were both glued to the screen, seated side by side on the old couch, watching Dave Grohl sit behind the kit at Saturday Night Live like he'd never left it.

"He looks good up there," Barrett murmured.

Iris didn't respond right away. She was watching his face—serious, focused, then breaking into that wide, unmistakable grin when the first track ended and the crowd applauded. Something in her chest fluttered with pride and something else harder to name.

When the second song kicked in, Barrett leaned over. "He's gonna get offers after this."

She nodded, a smile playing at her lips. "Yeah. He's ready for them now."

*

The knock came late. Iris opened the door to find Dave holding a six-pack and a tired, elated look in his eyes.

"Got room for one more Heartbreaker?" he asked with a crooked grin.

She laughed and stepped aside. "Always."

They sat on the floor of her living room, cross-legged with two beers cracked open. The TV was off. The only light came from a standing lamp and the orange-pink haze of a fading Seattle evening.

"So," she said after a pause, "tell me everything."

Dave leaned back on one hand, sipping slowly. "It was surreal. Everyone was so kind. Tom's like... the calmest dude alive. You can't be nervous around him for long—he won't let you."

She watched him quietly, letting him talk it out.

"After the show, he pulled me aside and said if I wanted it, the drummer spot was mine. Full-time. Tour, record, everything."

Iris's eyes widened. "Wait, what? Are you serious?"

He nodded. "Dead serious."

"Jesus, Dave... that's fucking nuts."

"Yeah," he said softly. "It is."

She leaned toward him, brow furrowed. "So... how do you feel about it?"