We had sat in silence for awhile. Not the whole ride, just a few minutes. We had just had a discussion about the theology of a couple members of my writers group, where they fell short, why they might think that way, how they would be perceived. As we got close to home, I decided to be brave and mention something I was actually thinking about, all day, from writers group.

“So, another person there told me that some of the stuff I wrote about you was the most interesting of what I brought. That our relationship was complex; it’s obvious how you’ve shaped me since I’m interested in different things than most girls.”

He edged to the stop sign, about as aggressively as normal despite the fresh and constant snow. “Hmm. You wrote about me?”

“Yeah, kind of, just stuff that I pull from my daily journals. Snippets. Conversations. Interactions. But now I have to deal with the fact that the most interesting thing about me is my father.”

“Huh.”

We slipped into silence again. We often do. I don’t know if that’s because we are comfortable sitting in silence together or just because we’re alike enough that there seems no point in bantering. Or small talk or, you know, honest feelings.

We pile out of the truck. I head to the shop to let my dogs out. He apparently had the same thought, and he always lopes along faster that I do. I can never keep up with him, he’s at the second door while I open the first. He calls into the darkness “INTERMEDIATES!” while I yell “Doggieees.” He calls them intermediates because they own two miniature dachshunds, my sister has a Golden Retriever, and my two weenie mutts lie squarely at the awkward intersection of “too big to be lap dogs” and “too cute to keep off the furniture.”

I decide to pursue the matter. I ask “What do you think of that?” and he immediately turns to look at me, and then in the direction that I’m looking. He’s searching for whatever I was talking about, and I remind him. “My writing.”

He looks at the floor. “It’s probably more a matter of you being a complex person than our relationship being complex. I don’t think we do complex things. You’re thinking deep on it.”

It feels like a victory to hear him call me a complex person. That means that to him, I’m more than just my lack of discipline or the boiling self hatred that I feel defines me. Complex. Complex is good. I can deal with complex.

I smile and pull out my phone, tapping away to make sure I remember the quote correctly. He grins and peers over at it. “You writing more?”

Always.