This is brand new.
I took the tag off, put the paper in the trash can, and then assessed the shower cap again.
This has to be for me. But. . .
The satin-lined shower cap wasmy kindof shower cap. Not one of those flimsy ones that did nothing to protect my 4C curls, but the thick, durable kind that would keep every drop of water away from my hair.
Next to the shower, on a sleek black shelf, were the same products I had on my bathroom shelf—the same leave-in conditioner I used, a jar of curling cream I swore by, and even the wide-tooth comb I used for detangling.
These were all brand new.
What the fuck? How did he know?
I stared at them, and a knot formed in my stomach.
My mind raced.
He’s been watching me before we met? He’s even been inside my apartment? Or had someone else go in there.
It seemed impossible, but the feeling gnawed at me anyway. I reached out, brushing my fingers over the products. These weren’t just generic items he could have guessed at—they were the exact brands, the exact tools I needed. Things that I ordered from out-of-state companies due to the fact that they were Black-female owned and made specifically for my hair type.
In fact, that brand of leave-in conditioner typically took four weeks to be delivered.
This is deeper than I understand.
Sure, he was powerful.
He had connections.
It wasn’t so far-fetched to think he could have found out these details about me, even the most personal ones. But. . .this was also alevel of detailthat screamed. . .he knew me much better than I understood.
Like. . .he knows my hair routine. So. . .has he been recording me in my bathroom? Or. . .I don’t know. . .what it is.
I stared at the products on the shelf. It wasn’t just the shock of seeing them here, as if Gianni had somehow plucked them from my own bathroom and placed them in this luxurious marble space.
It was the intimacy of it.
The deep, unsettling sense that he knew me in ways I hadn’t even shared yet.
I touched the satin-lined shower cap again, rubbing the fabric between my fingers. This wasn’t something you justguessedat—this was personal.
Like. . .he knew it would mean so much to me if these things were here.
My hair routine had always been something sacred to me, a part of my self-care that was steeped in tradition and ritual. Without a mother and no other Black women around to help me understand my hair, I honestly walked around with it looking pretty crazy.
Maximo never thought to send me to a beautician or get a nanny of color that could have helped me out.
So, I honestly grew up just. . .not knowing. . .myself. . .and not liking my hair.
Not accepting it.
Sure, I would see other Black women on TV or in movies and think that I just didn’t have hair like them.
I was cursed with something else.
Something nappy, dry, and unbearable.
Thank God for other sisters out in the world willing to provide information. A few of my Black friends got me straight in boarding school.
