The film session let out a little before noon.
Eddie had called the night before to set up lunch.
By the time Ryan pulled up to the restaurant, he could already see the two of them inside: Eddie in a crisp suit, head down over his phone; beside him, Jamal, who spotted Ryan and threw up a hand.
Ryan dropped into a chair. Eddie and Jamal had gotten there first, a coffee and a basket of fries on the table to tide them over. The waiter came around and the three of them put in real orders—Ryan swiping a fry off Jamal's basket as he did.
"Been a while since we all sat down like this," he said, leaning back.
Eddie took a sip of his coffee, unhurried. "Good timing, actually—got something to tell you. That ad of yours is airing tomorrow night."
"Which ad?"
Before Eddie could answer, Jamal set down his fry, cleared his throat, and—suddenly all soft eyes and tenderness, crooning to no one in particular:
"Clean game. Clean box."
Ryan went still.
