by Elizabeth Dawn

Created on: July 03, 2009   Last Updated: October 14, 2010

His eyes were the color of liquid butterscotch. I remember being fascinated with his hands. His hands... so strong and warm. The flush of hot that would travel up my spine to my neck and face whenever he was present was surely obvious. An awkward fifteen year old girl, lusting after this elusive twenty-nine year old man. The same man, incidentally, that was my young mother's boyfriend.

Dan was a few years younger than my thirty-one year old mother, but more than made up for the fact with his maturity. Sadly, he was the adult in the twisted relationship,more often playing mentor/father than boyfriend. My mother would throw childish tantrums that caused his jaw muscles to tense, and his body to become dangerously rigid. I, of course, found his fight pose all that more appealing. I had a school-girl turned obsessive crush on the man my mother slept with- not the after school special I was looking for.

The relationship between my mom and Dan was always on or off again, like a revolving door. It spanned two years and then, finally, sputtered out like an extinguishing flame. During this time, I made the transition from gangly child to semi-decent looking young adult. My obsession gave way to form a routine with Dan, more that of a teasing manner than fatherly. We became the caretakers of my mother, this porcelain doll who grew up too fast.

The last time I saw him was the day he moved his stuff out of our house for the last time. He was going on thirty-two, but being the glue holding dear mom together had taken a toll on him. His tan face showed early signs of wrinkles around the eyes, no doubt from many a late night getting no sleep from picking up shards of broken glass or turning over tossed furniture. Speckles of gray stood out in the chestnut brown hair that desperately needed a trim. Yet, with these slight imperfections, my heart still irregularly beat at the sight of him smile at me.

" I'll be seeing you,kiddo," Dan said when the last box was shoved in. He never called me Daisy, only "kiddo." I despised that nickname, if only because I would spend hours putting our names together in my diary: Daisy and Dan. Dan and Daisy. Daisy heart Dan. My mother found my stash once, and I had to convince her that I had a crush on my lab partner, a football quarterback named Dan.

His beat up Dodge roared to life. The cheap sky blue paint had long since peeled to almost non-existence, and the muffler sputtered and choked. Dan stood by the door, his new life stretched before him, no one holding him back. I gazed with wonder at this man I had fixated on for so long. Hesitantly, I began to step forward, boldy making a move two years in the making. In that instant, Dan smiled, waved, and climbed into his truck, rambling down the gravel road with a honk.

My stomach ached with the sudden drop of my heart. I knew, all along, that I would never be his girl.I think a small part of me died that day, the unrequited first real crush pain of knowing. The hard lesson of some things are not meant to be is part of a class that will eternally be full and empty at the same time. I learned the pain of loss that day, loss of innocence and worth.

My mother's boyfriend made my teen years interesting and full of wonder. Mom eventually gained some level of maturity and married a balding, sweet plumber that showered her with gifts and affections. I went away to college, majoring in phschology and social science. The memory of Dan, my crush, and the two years he influenced my life went neatly tucked away in a shoe box in my closet, where I still keep his picture, along with my Daisy/Dan journals, and other moments that make up who I am now.

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