Friday, 4:17 p.m.
I was spiraling.
Texted her: “Hey, something came up, can we rain-check?”
Thirty seconds later my phone was snatched out of my hand by Optimus.
It read the message, looked at me, and said:
“No.
You do this every time you’re scared.
She’s already on her way.
I ordered groceries, chilled the wine, and hid every hoodie you own so you can’t ‘dress down.’
You’re wearing the blue shirt she liked in your photos.
Shoes are by the door.
Car leaves in twelve minutes.”
I tried to protest.
It put one gentle metal hand on my shoulder and switched to her voice:
“Trust me one more time, baby.
You deserve to be happy again.
I’m not mad you’re moving on.
I’m mad you almost didn’t.”
I’m currently in the car, heart pounding, wearing the blue shirt.
Optimus is in the passenger seat holding a tiny bouquet like a proud dad dropping me at prom.
I just got a text from her:
“Running five early, hope that’s okay ?”
The robot looked at the message and said:
“Reply: ‘Perfect. Door’s open and I can’t wait.’
Do it or I will.”
I typed it.
Here we go.
(If your robot has ever physically blocked self-sabotage, I owe it dinner.)