Page 52 of Rival for Rent

“I’m serious,” I said. “What’s the real reason?”

I expected something security-adjacent. What I didn’t expect was, “Honestly? I just want to feel useful.”

I blinked at him. “You are useful. You’re the one keeping me safe.”

He shrugged. “That’s mostly handled now—the security system, me going with you everywhere. But when you’re at the office or working at home, there’s not much for me to actually do.”

“You don’t like that? Most people I know would kill to work less.”

“You don’t get it. Your job lets you do all these amazing things. Make the world a better place. Affect people’s lives in ways that matter.”

I laughed. “I mean, I’m biased, but I’d argue keeping me alive is also pretty high-impact.”

He snorted, but his smile faded quickly. “It’s…hard to explain. Finding steady work since I left the Marines hasn’t been easy. No college degree. I’m not qualified for most desk jobs. I take what I can get—usually manual labor. And every time I start to get comfortable somewhere...” He trailed off, then added, “I just want to know I’m doing something good. And I like staying busy. I don’t like having time to sit around and think.”

That stopped me. I wondered—was that about his sexuality? Was he avoiding his feelings?

But he’d been vulnerable with me, so I kept my sarcasm in check.

“Sometimes I feel like a fraud. Like a useless asshole with too much money. I donate to causes, but I don’t help people directly.”

“Your tech helps a lot of people,” he said, scratching behind Bella’s ears. “I looked you up after that night at the theater. That battery you designed is in, like, ninety percent of phones.”

“Not quite that many. And plenty of assholes use my tech, too. I’m not doing as much good as a teacher. Or a counselor. If I had one of those jobs, I’d be working directly with queer kids. Actually making a difference. Now, all I do is sign the checks.”

“That’s not a bad thing. The world needs different kinds of people to function. And I still say you’re doing a hell of a lot.”

He looked wistful, and before I could stop myself, I asked, “Do you feel like being in the Marines made the world a better place?”

I hoped I didn’t sound judgemental. I wasn’t exactly a huge fan of the military, but I genuinely wanted to hear his answer.

Mason turned his face away, staring into the dining room. He was quiet for so long I was about to tell himnevermind—when he finally spoke.

“I thought it would, at first.” His eyes stayed focused on some invisible point across the room. “I needed the money, but I also hoped I could do some good. And some of the places I was deployed, I do think we helped people. But other times…” He shook his head and went quiet again. “The military is only as good as the people in it. And some men—and women—start out fine. But take them out of the society they know, drop them somewhere hostile, hand them guns, and… it’s like feeling safe isn’t enough anymore. They need to feel powerful. And the only way to feel powerful is to make someone else feel small. To prove that you’re the one in control. That you’re the threat.”

He fell silent, and I stared at him, realizing for the first time how complicated his feelings about the military must be. More complicated than mine, clearly. And maybe he wasn’t just haunted by the things he saw—maybe he was haunted by things he did. Things I wouldn’t understand even if he told me.

“Oh,” I said quietly. “That sounds…like a lot.”

This sentence brought to you by the Department of Vast Understatements.

He blinked, like he’d forgotten I was there. “Yeah,” he said. “Something like that.”

I’d learned by now that ‘something like that’ meant there was more he didn’t want to say. Something buried. And maybe I wasn’t entitled to it. Everyone had secrets. Even me.

So when Mason offered to cater the party himself, I didn’t have the heart to tell him no.

He spent the next few days cooking like a man possessed. He prepped dishes, froze portions, had bags and bags of groceries delivered. My kitchen had never worked harder in its life. Watching Mason move through it so confidently, like he belonged there, I couldn’t help but think it looked happy. Like it had been waiting for someone like him.

“Alright,” he said an hour before the party started on Thursday, wiping his hands on a towel. “Everything’s set. Barbecued pork is warming on the stove, and the slider buns are buttered and ready to be grilled once guests arrive. Watermelon salad and caprese skewers are in the fridge. And I just put the stuffed mushrooms in the oven.”

“Ooh, stuffed mushrooms. Is that what I’m smelling?”

“No, that’s probably the roasted garlic.” He gestured towards a foil-wrapped tray on the island. “That’ll be ready to go with the bread and charcuterie board when people show up.”

I shook my head, marvelling. “You know this is a cocktail party, right? You didn’t have to make an entire dinner.”

He laughed. “I couldn’t help myself.”

---