Lemons and Roses

Episode2

It had been three days since the interview.

Zia asked about it once, carefully, like she was trying not to press on something already bruised. I told her they didn’t hire me because of the gap in my CV. I didn’t tell her about the way the woman looked at me, or the word criminal thrown around like it was carved into my skin.

She accepted it. Or at least she pretended to.

That Monday morning, I woke up earlier than usual and checked my email out of habit, not expectation.

Two interview invitations.

Then another one later that day.

Three interviews scheduled across the week.

For a moment, I just sat there staring at the screen, like if I blinked too hard they would disappear. It felt strange—almost like luck. Or maybe just coincidence. Either way, I didn’t question it.

If I was careful, if I showed up right, maybe one of them would look past the silence of my past ten years and see something else.

Something usable.

Something human.

The first rejection came gently.

“Miss Bennett, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but company policy doesn’t allow ex-convicts.”

The interviewer said it with what looked like pity. Or maybe discomfort. I couldn’t tell anymore. I had stopped trusting facial expressions.

“I understand,” I replied quietly.

And I left.

It wasn’t cruel like the first interview I had. It didn’t cut as deep. But somehow, it still stayed with me longer than it should have.

The words ex-convict followed me all the way home.

By the time I reached my fourteenth interview in two weeks, I stopped expecting anything different.

Sometimes they rejected me before I even finished sitting down. Sometimes they smiled politely while already deciding I didn’t belong there. After the fifth interview, I stopped hoping for acceptance.

I only hoped for less humiliation.

Zia still offered help. She said it more than once, in different ways—calls she could make, people she knew, small openings she could “check for me.”

Each time, I said no.

Not because I didn’t need help.

But because I didn’t trust what my name would do to her if it was attached to anything.

If I had any confidence left, I couldn’t feel it anymore. It was buried under polite refusals and closed doors.

Then I found it.

A small restaurant.

No big company name. No polished website. Just a simple advert: Staff needed.

I went in the next morning.

The woman behind the counter didn’t smile. She didn’t ask many questions either. She just looked me up and down like she was calculating whether I was worth the trouble.

“Ten dollars an hour,” she said finally. “You’ll do dishes, serve orders, clean after closing. Cleaning after hours isn’t paid. And you take out the trash.”

It wasn’t fair. Even I knew that.

The work was a lot for the pay. The restaurant looked busy enough to break anyone who stood there too long. But it was the first place in weeks that didn’t pause when they saw the gap in my CV.

Not even a question.

Not even a flicker of suspicion.

“I’ll take it,” I said quickly, before I could overthink it.

“Good,” she replied. “Get your ass in there and start taking orders.”

She tossed an apron at me like I was already part of the place.

Five days in, and my body already ached in ways I didn’t know existed.

My feet hurt constantly. My shoulders felt heavy even when I wasn’t lifting anything. My hands smelled like soap and oil no matter how many times I washed them.

But strangely… I was okay.

Or at least closer to okay than I had been in a long time.

The restaurant was chaos most days. Orders shouted across counters, plates clattering, customers impatient before they even sat down.

“Miss Bennett! Table six is waiting!”

“I’m coming!” I would answer, already moving.

“I Ordered fifteen minutes ago!” someone complained loudly.

“I’m sorry, it’ll be ready in five!”

I didn’t even recognise my own voice sometimes.

It was too busy for thinking. Too loud for memories.

And in that strange, exhausting noise, I found something that almost felt like life again.

It was the weekend when everything collapsed.

The place was packed—busier than I had ever seen it. Only me and Ben, a quiet high school boy who worked part-time and looked like he was permanently overwhelmed.

We were drowning.

Orders stacked faster than we could handle them. Customers grew impatient. The kitchen couldn’t keep up. I could feel the pressure building in my chest with every new shout.

“I placed my order thirty minutes ago!”

“I’m sorry! It’s coming!”

I turned too quickly, nearly dropping a tray.

And then—

“Miss Bennett!”

Juliet’s voice sliced through everything.

My stomach tightened immediately.

“In my office. Now.”

There was something in her tone that made my skin go cold. She hadn’t spoken like that before. Not exactly kind before, but not like this either.

I walked slowly, wiping my hands on my apron without even realising they were shaking.

Her office door was slightly open.

She was sitting inside with her legs crossed on the desk, flipping through a file like she already knew everything inside it.

“Miss Bennett,” she said without looking up.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I heard something about you,” she continued.

A pause.

“A little birdie told me something I hope isn’t true.”

My mouth went dry instantly.

“Can you explain the ten-year gap in your CV?”

The room felt smaller.

Ten seconds passed.

Then twenty.

My heartbeat grew louder than everything outside.

“Miss Bennett?” Her eyes lifted now. “Are you planning to answer, or should I just guess?”

I forced air into my lungs. My hands were sweating so badly I had to rub them against my apron.

“I was in prison,” I said finally.

Silence.

“You were in prison?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her expression didn’t change much. That was somehow worse.

“And you didn’t think to mention that before I hired a criminal?”

“I’m not a criminal,” I said quickly, before I could stop myself.

She tilted her head slightly. “Oh? What were you convicted for then?”

The words came out before I could swallow them back.

“Murder.”

For the first time, she looked mildly interested. Not shocked. Just… confirmed.

“So killing people doesn’t count as a crime anymore?”

Silence.

“I work hard,” I said, voice trembling now. “I never miss shifts. I even work through breaks. I don’t complain. I just… I just needed a chance.”

She let out a short laugh.

“A chance?” she repeated. “You think hard work erases that?”

My throat tightened.

“You could poison customers. You could snap at anyone who annoys you. Isn’t that what got you arrested?”

That sentence hit something deeper than I expected. Not because it was new—but because it sounded so certain. So final.

Like I had never changed.

Like I never could.

“I don’t do that,” I said quietly.

But she was already standing.

“Get your ass out of my restaurant,” she snapped. “Before I call the cops and send you right back where you came from.”

The last part didn’t even feel like words anymore. It felt like a door slamming.

I didn’t realise I was crying until something warm dropped onto my shirt.

I turned away quickly before anyone else could see.

I went back to the kitchen, took my bag from the corner, and walked out.