“Sixth. I’m eleven.” He shoved the last of his sandwich in his mouth and washed it down with a swig of water from his bottle. “How old is your son?”

A bell rang, and chaos erupted in the cafeteria as kids scrambled to gather up the remnants of their lunch and heft their backpacks into position.

“Older than you.” Steve pulled out a card and handed it to Noah as the boy slid the notebook into his backpack and stood. “If you ever want to talk about drawing—or anything else—my cell number is on there. I always answer, day or night.”

The boy fingered the card as if it were made of gold. “You mean I could call you? Anytime?”

“Yes.”

“Epic.” Noah stowed the card inside the pocket of his jeans and hefted his backpack. “I gotta get to class.”

“And I have to go back to work.” He stood too.

“Thanks for liking my sketches.”

“Thank you for letting me see them.”

The boy flashed him a quick grin and trotted over to join the throng of students funneling out the cafeteria door.

Steve watched until Noah was out of sight, his heart a tad lighter. He may not have impressed most of the students today with his talk, but his presence had had an impact on at least one of them.

Too bad he couldn’t do more for the boy than offer him a friendly ear. Like find a way to get him involved in an art-related activity.

As he should have done for his son.

A wave of grief and regret rolled over him, and he grasped the back of the chair Noah had vacated until the room steadied.

Beth had always been the one who searched out opportunities for Jonathan to develop his talent, while he tried to push him into sports.

And now the boy whose sunny smiles and innate kindness had graced his days with joy and love was gone, leaving an aching void behind that could never be filled.

As the cafeteria emptied, Steve trekked toward the exit, the smell of greasy fries sending a wave of nausea through him.

Or maybe his queasiness came from all the guilt and self-recriminations that knotted his gut day and night.

If only he’d listened to Beth through the years. Stopped trying to mold his son into someone he wasn’t and could never be—no matter how hard he tried.

And he’d tried.

Too hard.

Steve pushed through the door and continued to the cruiser, resting a hand on the roof as he lifted his face to the deep blue heavens.