𝙄𝙍𝙄𝙎

The Heartbreaker

OCTOBER, 1994

The studio smelled like coffee, worn-out amp wiring, and old cassettes—exactly how it should. For the past week, the basement had become their sanctuary. Dave, Iris, and Barrett had fallen into an easy rhythm: waking late, jamming until nightfall, losing hours to music and laughter and Barrett's sarcastic running commentary.

They'd been slowly re-recording the demos, tracking fresh versions of "Big Me," "Watershed," and "Alone + Easy Target." Just for fun, they'd even taken a crack at redoing some of the covers Dave had tracked years ago, minor punk hits and deep-cut favorites. It was loose, low-pressure, and oddly healing.

"Alright, this is take seven of Dave Grohl attempting to outshine The Germs," Barrett announced into the mic from behind the soundboard. "God help us all."

Dave, behind the mic and guitar, flipped him off and grinned. Iris sat nearby, scribbling song notes and humming under her breath.

But just as Dave launched into the opening riff, the phone rang upstairs.

Barrett froze mid-joke. "Landline's haunted again."

Iris stood and jogged up the basement stairs, taking two at a time. The ringing cut through the quiet of the house as she reached the phone mounted on the kitchen wall. She picked it up, brushing her hair behind her ear.

"Hello?"

A beat. Then a friendly, almost-too-professional voice came through: "Hi, I'm looking for Dave Grohl."

"Oh! Yeah, Dave's here. Can I ask who's calling?"

"This is John Silva, Dave's manager."

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Oh yeah, hang on."

She called down the stairs. "Dave! It's your manager!"

Dave's reply echoed faintly. "Tell him I said I'm dead!"

She smirked and held the receiver close. "He's coming," she said.

When Dave reached the top of the stairs, breath slightly ragged from a laughing fit, she handed him the phone with a raised eyebrow. "He sounds serious."

Dave took it, still catching his breath. "John?"

"Dave," came John's voice, calm but quick. "Hey man, sorry to bother you. I just got off the phone with someone and had to let you know."

"Who?" Dave asked, suddenly more alert.

"Tom Petty."

Dave blinked, stunned. "Tom... Petty?"

"Yeah. He's doing Saturday Night Live in a couple weeks. Their drummer just bailed last minute. Petty asked if you'd sit in with The Heartbreakers."

Dave's mouth opened, but nothing came out.

"Apparently he's a fan," John added. "Wants you behind the kit."

Dave let out a breathy, shocked laugh. "He knows who I am?"

"He does. And he wants you. What should I tell him?"

Dave stared at the floor, heart pounding. "Uh... I—I need to think about it."

"Of course," John said, his voice kind. "But I wouldn't sit on it too long. Just call me back when you're sure."

Dave hung up slowly, still staring at the wall.

Downstairs, Barrett was fiddling with mic placement again, and Iris was flipping through an old notebook, waiting. When Dave came back down, they both looked up.