RILEY'S WAS LIT FOR AMBIANCE AND THE SECRECY OF ITS PATRONS. Five blocks from Trinity college, it became wall-to-wall rammed during term and ghostly barren outside of it. It wasn't just a place to secure decent tips that paid for my off-campus housing—we were a family.

I knotted my apron as I sidestepped around the pool table over to the row of mahogany bar stools that butted up against the brass foot rail.

Jane hunched over the draining tray, perched on a barstool, blonde hair swept up in a messy bun, looking far too glamorous for a dive bar. Her fixed concentration cracked with a smile as she beckoned me to the stool next to her.

She slid over a bowl of citrus fruit along with a knife. "Read your new post this morning. Mel and Sam were mulling over the benefits of having the opposite sex as friends while prepping for meal service; it became fierce. Before I forget, how did your date go last night?"

"My Face-Time date was a no-show... Be honest, how atrocious is it if they refuse to pick up when you call? In some ways, it's worse than ghosting." I plonked myself down and mimicked Jane, slicing lemon and limes into wedges.

"At least, you'll have an answer for the dating feature you wanted."

I hummed an agreeable response before my mood sank again. "I'm on academic probation, reduced classes and the blog you speak of is a failure. Mom re-mortgaged for this semesters tuition. If I don't find a paid summer internship soon, she'll have to sell the house. End of story."

Jane sighed and her hand came up to rub my back. "I thought the blog was going well—You're smart, Millie, you'll figure this out."

"The other campus blogs' view count skyrockets on pure trash. They've reduced me to fake dates for content research. Then there's 'Man-Hack'... bane of my life."

"Holden Carter? The guy who posts the campus advice blog?"

I nodded. "People tell me it's brutal; students spilling their hearts to gain a shred of his golden wisdom about the male psyche."

"Ah, yeah, seen it," she confessed. "I'm a little hooked, utter garbage but a click-bait goldmine. Harsh but he gets the clicks."

Sam appeared at my side with his sleeves rolled up, tattoos on full display. "Hey, sweetheart." His hulking arms scooped me into a bear hug from behind. For a guy as stacked as Sam, his heart was mush and his embrace, security and a warm blanket in one.

The three of us were crammed into a two-story town house, a twenty-minute walk from the bustling sidewalks surrounding the university grounds. Our budget restricted privacy to four pocket-sized walls each, but within them-the best friends/roomies I could wish for. The other upside was stable Wi-Fi affording me constant connection to my student blog now in its third year, which supported my journalism major.

Sam's eyes warmed by his ever-present smile. "Band goes live at 9 PM, oh, and Lover Boys here." He winked, making a clicking sound with his tongue. "Heads up, we've got a newbie on shift tonight." Sam tossed me a spare apron from underneath the bar. "Train Nicole on the ropes for me, Millie. Riley is out of town this weekend."

In the corner hovered a petite pink-haired pixie with striking electric blue eyes. Newbies didn't last; the unsociable hours and our clicky friendship was difficult to penetrate.

"Consider it done, Sam."

Every weekend when Jayson lugged in the band's equipment, there was a collective sigh. Jane and I would pause, attention diverted to his devilish smirk that screamed uncomplicated sex. It always awoke a hunger in me. But today, he breezed right by without a glance, making a beeline for the new waitress.

Just another reminder that I was invisible to him.

Jayson was arguably the best sensory ambush in an otherwise dreary shift. As the resident band's unofficial roadie, whenever we elected against piped-in music, Riley treated us to the sight of Jayson. The amp he carried thumped to the floor. Dressed head-to-toe in black, I always welcomed the image of his fitted jeans and a band tee that stretched across his slim yet athletic chest. Jayson nudged the amp with his knee and adjusted it into place.

The shift started at a frantic pace. Two hours in and my feet ached, and my body longed for a bath. When an order was due, my eyes roamed the floor for an ever-absent Nicole. They always retrieved her in the pit, an empty drinks tray in hand, ogling Jayson or the band.

Awesome. But. No. Fucking. Way. The unusual unicorn had no right to barge in and claim my spot after countless weeks of free beers and shameless flirting. I swallowed a bitter aftertaste that amplified as I studied the couple. Nicole was close enough to warrant a restraining order but oozed welcome committee better than I did.

"Nicole, orders are ready." I pointed at three trays of drinks that were waiting. From where I stood, the heat that lit her cheeks was evident. She patted Jayson's shoulder before being enveloped by the crowd.

After things got into full swing, communication between Sam, Jane and I became non-verbal. We operated on synced hand gestures and head nods. My cell phone pinged in my apron pocket but was impossible for me to check.

With the bass thumping, I leaned over the bar and cupped my ear, straining to hear over the warm-up tracks. Sam opened a row of beers with a hiss-pop and mixed a porn star martini. He pushed an overloaded tray towards me

"Sweetheart, can you take the drinks order for table seven?"

"Sure." I winked, earning me a wide smile from Sam.

I weaved between the crowds. My cell phone pinged once more in my apron pocket. Balancing a tray palm up was an acquired skill. The heat from the packed room caused errant strands of brunette hair to fall out of my ponytail. At table seven, I sat the drinks down. Their rowdy conversation died to a low rumble.

"That her?" someone asked.

I narrowed my eyes; I can always tell how plastered a customer is in under ten seconds without even having to ask them to walk a line or recite the alphabet backwards—all these dudes were wasted—except one.

"Will there be anything else?" I asked, my hand reaching into my apron for my notepad and my pen poised to take any new orders.

They all shook their heads.

A hand caught mine as I pivoted to leave. "Millie, isn't it?" The sober one among them—a guy with thick, sandy bedroom hair, lived-in jeans and black-rimmed glasses— retracted his arm.

I liked the way he said my name. Intense eyes studied my reaction with a half-smile tugged on his lips. Patrons aren't allowed to touch; Riley's policy to protect the people who worked here.

"You okay, Millie?" a voice echoed over the crowd. I locked eyes with Jayson, who had decided now was the time I would earn his attention; forever blowing between lukewarm and arctic cold.

"Is that your boyfriend?" the guy asked.

"No, he's the roadie, we're friends," I stated blankly.

His brow furrowed as if he sensed a lie, and then he said, "Just friends? Really?"

Did he actually just say that in his out loud voice? Who was this douche? Unsure whether to laugh or groan, I did neither and opted for a cautious nod of my head, weary of what he might say next. The last thing I needed was Jayson thinking I was telling the entire bar I thought he was hot and wanted to see him naked.

"He's not you're type anyway."

I tensed. "What makes you say that?" His response had caught me off guard yet the sincerity in his voice matched his eyes, but it wasn't a question I'd asked making it irrelevant.

"That there,"—He pointed at the unicorn—"Is what your up against."

I gazed past the table, my eyes settling on Nicole who had once again found her way into the pit. Slacker. It was obvious she was out on the hunt and no amount of drink orders piling was going to stop it. But why her? And why not me?

"She's not a Golden Retriever. That guy can sense them a mile off."

I don't make it past his first four words because he'd just called me a dog. I let the shock dissipate from my face and morph instead into a scowl which I wholeheartedly then threw his way. I was far from a Golden Retriever. Sure, I was loyal, friendly, happy to get Jayson his mid-set water, slowly build our friendship first...

Shit. He was right.

"Sounds a little jerky, and not a topic I recall inviting your insight on."

I'm not an advocate for violence, but I considered repositioning his drink upside down and onto his head, but I was that desperate to hold my job, I swallowed my pride instead. Affording no extra time on him, I left, navigating the gaps in the crowds I came by.

Distracted by the squeal of a microphone, the band descended onto the stage to a roar from an animalistic crowd. Making it back to the bar, Jane caught my elbow and dragged me into an enclave that shielded against the noise.

"Care to explain that?" Jane muttered.

"Explain what?" My attention became divided between her and the packed bar of twenty customers, each straining to make eye contact while waving a bill in the air.

"Holden Carter table seven. Thought he was the bane of your life—quote unquote."

"Where?" I peeked, tracing her line-of-sight back to the stranger wearing glasses.

My first thought was why was he here followed closely by why was he waving? Oh, for fuck's sake.

The cell rattled in my apron again pulling my attention back to Jane, and I smiled an apology. "I've got to get this. It's been going nuts for the last hour. It might be urgent."

I ducked into the corridor, slipped my cell phone out of my apron pocket and loaded my blog to a shitload of notifications.

Having Platonic Friends of the Opposite Sex- Millie Archer

Commenter: HoldenCarter31—Do you believe platonic can ever really happen?

I was shell-shocked. The throwaway comment had garnered 250 likes already. What had started as a late-night ode to the reliable men in my life after a failed date now irked me. My blog overall had seen little attention in months—now this. I wasn't familiar with the name Holden Carter, but after that night, and that comment, he was everywhere.