Chapter 15 #2
When she moved to pick up the boxes from work, she caught him watching her, his jaw tightening for half a second before he masked it with a smirk.
“Don’t steal them,” she teased over her shoulder, forcing some lightness into her tone, even though adrenaline still coursed through her veins like fire.
Craig let out a sharp laugh, but something about it felt off. “Hey, what kind of guy do you take me for?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. They both knew exactly what kind of guy he was.
By the time she returned from stashing the boxes in her bedroom, Craig had found a broom and was sweeping up broken glass in the kitchen.
She paused in the doorway, watching him work. It was strange, seeing him like this. When he was sober, when he was here—really here—he was still the same big brother she had idolized as a kid.
“Care to share?” he asked, dumping a dustpan of glass shards into the trash.
Giselle exhaled, shaking herself out of her thoughts and flipping over the sofa cushions, hoping to make them look a little less like they’d been attacked by wild animals.
“I don’t know who did this,” she admitted quietly. “Nothing’s missing. They just…trashed the place.”
Craig’s sweeping slowed, his back going rigid for just a moment before he recovered. “That’s messed up. You should call the cops.”
She snorted, running a hand through her hair, then wincing when her fingers caught in a tangle. “Right, because the cops around here are so helpful.”
Craig shrugged, dumping another load of glass into the trash. “Maybe they’d at least check the security cameras. If your building has them.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but something in his tone made her hesitate.
There was something off about the way he said it.
Like he wasn’t just making a suggestion, but testing her.
Like he already knew what the cops would find.
Icy fingers crept up her spine, but she ignored the sensation, shoving the thought aside.
This was Craig. Her brother. He wouldn’t… !
Would he?
Giselle shook her head, forcing the doubt away.
Instead, she focused on the disaster in front of her, on the fact that her home no longer felt like home, and that the only person helping her was the same person she had spent years trying, and failing, to save.
And now, for the first time, she had to wonder—was Craig the one who needed saving from himself, or was she the one who needed saving from him?
Craig dumped the last bit of broken bits into the trash and looked around. “Got any food?”
She laughed, startled by his question. “Food?” she repeated. “You’re asking about food when all of my dishes were broken?”
Craig shrugged. “I’m hungry. And you always have something to eat.” He grinned, reminding her of the old Craig. The sweet kid who had made her laugh and warned her not to take life so seriously.
“You can look, but,” she paused, looking around at the remnants of her lamp, “I doubt it.”
Craig walked over to peer into the fridge, then the freezer. “Nothing but a single frozen pizza?” he grumbled, rubbing his belly as if he hadn’t eaten in days.
Giselle sighed, rolling her eyes at his dramatic disappointment over her near-empty freezer. "It’s been a busy week," she said, avoiding the truth. The truth was, grocery shopping wasn’t a priority when most of her paycheck disappeared into other people's hands.
Craig grinned and pointed to the now-open cabinet where there was only a container of coffee grounds. "Sure, Zelly. Or maybe you were planning to survive off coffee."
She snorted, already feeling lighter with him here. He had that effect on her when he was like this—almost clear-eyed, joking, the big brother she used to rely on. "Hey, don’t mock my coffee!"
"Yeah, well, I think you should make some damn pizza before you turn into an actual spreadsheet." He went back to the freezer and grabbed the pizza and tossed it onto the counter with a thud. "I’ll preheat the oven while you finish cleaning up this mess."
She hesitated, watching him sweep up the last bits of glass, his movements steady, almost too focused. But she let it go. For now. Because it felt good to have him here, helping instead of hurting.
As the oven heated, she changed out of the new dress, hanging it carefully in her closet.
The dress had changed something inside her today.
When she wore it, she felt different—stronger, more confident, more like a woman who was allowed to take up space instead of shrinking herself to accommodate everyone else.
Maybe she should start dressing like that more often. Maybe she deserved to.
By the time she returned to the kitchen, Craig had cleared away the last of the destruction. There was still plenty of damage, of course—her broken lamps, the ruined couch cushions—but with the glass swept away and the pizza baking in the oven, her apartment didn’t feel quite so violated.
They sat on the floor together, just like when they were kids, waiting for their late-night snack to finish cooking.
It had been so long since she’d had an evening like this—just laughing, joking, teasing him as he exaggerated some ridiculous story about a job he almost landed. He was like this when he was sober. Funny. Sharp. The brother she adored.
"You remember when we used to do this after Mom and Dad passed out?" Craig asked, leaning back against the cabinets, stretching his legs out in front of him. "We’d sneak whatever leftovers were in the fridge and eat on the floor so we wouldn’t wake them up."
She smiled at the memory, taking a sip of water. "You always took the last of the mashed potatoes."
"Because you let me!" He smirked. "Admit it. You wanted me to have them because I was your favorite person in the world."
She rolled her eyes, nudging his knee with her foot. "Right. That’s definitely it."
But the truth was, she had let him. Back then, she used to give him extra food, save him the last cookie, slip her allowance into his backpack when she knew he needed it.
She still did, didn’t she? Pushing the thought aside when the oven timer pinged, indicating that the pizza was done.
Pushing onto her feet, Craig followed her.
“You were a great big sister,” he admitted and even hugged her.
Giselle pulled the pizza out of the oven, then onto the wooden cutting board.
Thank goodness she still had heating pads.
She grabbed the pizza cutter out of the drawer and handed it to him.
"You cut. You always complain when I do it. "
Craig grinned. "Because you cut slices like a serial killer."
"That doesn’t even make sense."
"Look,” he teased, waving her out of the way, “just let the professional handle it," he said, dramatically rolling his shoulders before slicing the pizza into even sections.
She brought the pizza, wooden board and all, back to the family room.
They ate right there on the floor, joking, reminiscing, laughing about the terrible thrift store couches their parents had cycled through over the years.
The familiarity, the warmth, the goodness of it all made her chest ache.
This was the brother she loved. The one she wished she could keep.
After they finished, Craig stretched out on the couch, propping his hands behind his head. "I’ll crash here tonight. Just to make sure no one comes back to finish the job."
A lump formed in her throat, but she swallowed it down. "You don’t have to do that."
He yawned and shrugged. "I know."
She hesitated, then reached over and squeezed his hand. "Thanks, Craig."
For one night, just one, she didn’t have to be the strong one. She fell asleep knowing that if something happened, he was there. And for the first time in a long time, she slept hard and deep, wrapped in the warmth of finally feeling safe.