Hazel:I'm going dumpster diving.
Olivia:And… maybe this is why you haven't gotten any…
I grabbed my bike and hooked up the trailer. We were going to be making stained glass at the retreat tomorrow, and I needed materials. On principle, I refused to buy glass just to break it. I also needed to find some metal I could melt down for the solder in between the glass pieces.
My first stop was Svensson PharmaTech. Sometimes they put out scraps. There was some office furniture but not anything I could use for an art project.
I pedaled down Main Street. There were workshops at the edge of town; sometimes they had scraps. The large wholesale store was that direction too. In the evenings, they threw out crates of food. I had a hankering for avocados. Maybe I would be lucky tonight.
Motorcycles revved in the distance as I pedaled along. Honestly, at the next town hall meeting, I was going to complain about those. Whoever was riding their fancy bikes down the street needed to stop.
There were a few cars on the road, but most people were at home by now. I signaled that I was turning onto one of the streets that led to the outskirts of town. Away from the bustle of Main Street, it seemed dead. It was also a little creepy. I had the distinct feeling like someone was watching me.
You're being dumb.
Harrogate was so much safer and more affluent than it was when I was a girl. I looked over my shoulder. In the distance behind me were headlights.
"They're probably just going home," I told myself.
All the buildings I passed were dark. If something were to happen, I would be all alone. Cursing all my student loan debt and my decision to buy the café building instead of a car, I turned onto the short road that led to the wholesale store. Then I waited a beat and looked over my shoulder to see the same headlights swing into the driveway. There was no way that person was going to the store. It had been closed thirty minutes already.
"They're picking up someone," I told myself firmly as I parked my bike near the dumpster. "If you want to be anxious about something, be anxious about the fact that you're about to lose your home and your business."
Looking to make sure no employees were out, I stood on top of an empty milk crate and eased the top off the dumpster and used my phone to take pictures of the inside. Score! Not only was there a whole pallet of raspberries, I also saw a box of broken glass plates. It took me a few tries to jump up to actually get inside the dumpster. I was struggling, reaching for the box of plates.
"Almost got it…"
Muscular arms wrapped around my waist and jerked me backward. I screamed and attacked the man holding me.
"Stop!" Archer said, batting away my fists.
"What are you doing?" I shrieked. "You can't just grab someone like that!"
"You looked like you were about to fall headfirst in there," Archer said, frowning. "What are you even doing? What could you possibly need in that dumpster?"
"Broken plates," I said defiantly. "And raspberries."
"I will buy you raspberries and break some plates for you if you stop digging around in the dumpster like a raccoon. Honestly," he said, tugging me back to his car.
"I don't need you to buy me anything," I said.
"How did you even get over here? I thought you didn't have a car."
"I took my bike."
Archer swore and looked up at the night sky. "It's pitch dark, and we're miles outside of town. You could have been hurt."
"It's Harrogate, not Manhattan," I scoffed. "I'm perfectly fine." He released me, and I hightailed it back to the dumpster. "I need those plates for the art retreat."
Archer swore again. "Someone spare me from crazy art girls," he said into the dark. Then he marched over to me. "I will get it out for you." He was tall enough that he could easily stand on the milk crate and reach inside, plucking out the boxes of broken glass plates.
"Nice!" I said, inspecting them. There were two boxes, a set of mottled-blue glass plates and a box of purple and silver. "These will be perfect." I looked up at Archer. "Can you get my raspberries?"
"You are not eating raspberries out of a dumpster," he said, taking the plates in one hand and me in the other. "I'm taking you home."
"I have my bike," I protested. "And I need to find some scrap metal."
Archer ignored me as he took my bike, unclipped the trailer, and loaded them into the trunk of his car. Even though the sports car had trunk room, the bike still stuck out awkwardly.
