It had been that way for as long as I could remember. My parents had even hung out there when they were in high school—there was a picnic table near the back where they’d etched their initials in their sophomore year. A few years ago, when they updated the rotting picnic tables with an eco-friendly recycled-wood substitute, my father had gotten the board with their initials and had a new mantel for our fireplace made. It was a reminder of how deep our roots were in Crest Haven. It was a staple. A constant. And it was ground zero for scoping out summer girls. I got there before Wade and Tori and found a spot. Parking was a definite #wheelchairperk. It was early enough in the night, so there were no hordes of tourists or lines that stretched out to the street. I pushed myself up to the window to order. No menu necessary. Every summer, every time, Coke float and a soft pretzel. My only issue these days was that the counter made me feel like a five-year-old because I had to strain to look over it.
