Chapter 2 — Paper Planes Rules

Alexa

The first thing I noticed about Skyler West was that he didn’t walk—he prowled. Every step seemed like it was meant to challenge me, from the deliberate scuff of his combat boots on the freshly mopped floors to the way his piercing blue eyes darted around the lobby like he was scanning for weak spots. His fingers drummed a steady rhythm against his thigh, a subconscious tick that grated on my nerves more than I cared to admit. Skyler had “trouble” written all over him, though I couldn’t shake the feeling that his swagger was covering something else. Something quieter.

I adjusted the silver “paper plane” charm on my bracelet, letting its familiar weight ground me, and gestured for him to follow. “Alright, let’s start with a tour. Paper Planes is a big place, and it’s important you understand its layout and your responsibilities while you’re here.”

Skyler barely moved, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his ripped jeans. “Sounds thrilling,” he muttered, his sarcasm as sharp as the edge of a broken record.

“Try to keep up,” I said, keeping my tone light but firm. If I let him get under my skin now, he’d never stop.

Pushing open the double doors to the east wing, I led him down a hallway lined with a mix of polished wood and brightly painted walls. The faint scent of lavender hung in the air—not as overwhelming as the lobby but enough to create a sense of calm. Or at least, that was the idea.

“Paper Planes is divided into three main sections: the residential wing, the therapy wing, and the common areas,” I began. “Residents stay in private rooms but share spaces like the lounge and dining hall. Your duties will mostly involve assisting in the common areas.”

“Got it,” Skyler said, his smirk obvious even though I wasn’t looking at him. “I’m the janitor.”

I glanced back at him, arching an eyebrow. “You’re here to assist with whatever the staff needs. That includes cleaning, organizing, and occasionally helping with group activities. And for the record, being a janitor is an important job.”

His grin widened, his fingers drumming against his jeans again. “Sure, boss.”

We walked past a series of framed paintings lining the walls, vivid colors and bold brushstrokes practically leaping off the canvas. The artwork was raw, unfiltered, and brimming with emotion—each piece a glimpse into the mind of its creator. I slowed, letting Skyler catch up before pointing to one of the larger pieces, a swirling mix of blues and yellows that seemed to vibrate with energy.

“These are all made by our residents,” I said, softening my voice. “Art is a big part of the therapeutic process here. It helps them express feelings they might not have the words for.”

Skyler’s gaze lingered on the painting longer than I expected. His fingers stilled, and his smirk faltered slightly, replaced by something I couldn’t quite pin down. But as soon as I glanced at him, he blinked, the smirk sliding back into place like a mask. “Neat,” he said flatly, but there was an edge to his tone that suggested he wasn’t as indifferent as he wanted me to believe.

I didn’t push him—not yet. Instead, I led him into the dining hall, where the soft hum of conversation filled the air. Residents sat scattered around the room, some chatting quietly while others ate in silence. In the far corner, Sadie sat with her sketchbook open in front of her, though her pencil hovered above the page, unmoving. Across the room, Jerry was meticulously arranging apple slices on his plate, his hands gloved as usual. He adjusted each slice with surgical precision, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Sadie and Jerry are two of our more active participants,” I said quietly, nodding toward them. “You’ll likely interact with them often.”

Skyler’s gaze flicked to Sadie, who glanced up at him for barely a second before burying her face back in her sketchbook. “She’s the one who bolted earlier, right?”

“She’s shy,” I said, keeping my tone even. “It takes her a while to feel comfortable around people. Jerry’s similar, but for different reasons. He’s very structured and detail-oriented, so don’t mess with his routines.”

Skyler’s grin turned sly, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Noted,” he said, his tone making it clear he fully intended to test those boundaries.

I took a slow breath, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “Come on. There’s more to see.”

The therapy wing was quieter, the air heavier, though not in an oppressive way. The walls here were lined with shelves stacked with books and bins of art supplies, creating an atmosphere of creativity and reflection. I explained the basics of the individual and group sessions held here, keeping my descriptions brief. Skyler hummed noncommittally, his attention drifting to the windows where sunlight streamed in, casting long shadows across the floor.

Finally, we reached the west wing, and I pushed open the door to the music room. The atmosphere inside was noticeably different—lighter, almost reverent. Sunlight poured through the windows, illuminating rows of instruments lined against the walls: guitars, keyboards, drums, even a vintage record player tucked into one corner. The faint smell of polished wood and metal strings lingered in the air, grounding the room in a sense of purpose. It was a place that felt alive, even in its stillness.

“This is where you’ll spend most of your time,” I said, stepping aside to let Skyler take it in.

He hesitated at the threshold, his eyes locking onto the guitars almost immediately. The usual swagger in his posture softened, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he stepped inside. He reached out, his fingers brushing over the polished wood of a guitar hanging on the wall. His thumb traced an invisible pattern along the strings, the movement slow and deliberate.

“Nice setup,” he said quietly, his voice lacking its usual sharpness. His hand went to the silver guitar pick necklace around his neck, his fingers adjusting it absently as though seeking reassurance.

I crossed my arms, studying him carefully. “The music room is a safe space for residents to explore their creativity. We have group sessions twice a week, but they’re free to use it whenever they want, as long as they follow the rules.”

Skyler turned to me, one eyebrow quirking upward. “Rules, huh? You guys do love those around here.”

“They’re necessary,” I replied, letting a hint of sharpness creep into my voice. “Especially for someone like you, who seems to think rebellion is a personality trait.”

For the briefest moment, his smirk flickered, his expression tightening before snapping back into place. “Touché.”

I handed him a laminated sheet of paper. “Here’s the schedule for the music room, along with a list of tasks I expect you to complete. Today, that means cleaning the instruments and organizing the sheet music. And no playing unless it’s part of the session.”

“Got it, boss,” he said, giving me a mock salute.

I ignored the jab, turning toward the door. “I’ll check in on you later. Try not to break anything.”

As I walked away, I couldn’t help but glance back through the small window in the door. Skyler was still there, his fingers hovering over the strings of a guitar, his head bowed as though the weight of the room had finally settled on him. The swagger and snark were gone, replaced by something quieter. Something real.

Maybe Gabby was right. Maybe there was more to Skyler West than I’d realized. But if he was going to make it here—if he was going to be anything more than a thorn in my side—I’d have to find a way to reach him.

And knowing Skyler, that was going to be a battle.