One Last Summer Laugh

**One Last Summer Laugh** At eighteen, you always think you know it all. I was no different. Another summer had rolled around, and for Ella Williams, that meant stocking shelves and wiping tables at Grandpa Joe's Diner. Nestled on a scenic road in Washington state, with only wheat fields for neighbors, Joe's was both famous and forgotten depending on who you asked. "You excited, kiddo?" Grandpa Joe asked, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. I shrugged, pulling my hair into a ponytail. "I guess. Not like anything new's gonna happen here." My grandpa just smiled the way he always did – knowing, quiet, arm around me like he could see every inch of my teenage skepticism. Our diner wasn't a stranger to passerby travelers. Tire-popped trucks, road-tripping families, lost college students – they'd stop by for a pie, maybe a quick pic under the neon sign that still buzzed after all these years. Little did I expect this summer to stand out. It all began on a Monday that was suspiciously still warm. Around lunchtime, an ancient bus painted like a camper van screeched into the dusty lot, spitting smoke and entirely out of breath. Three strangers hopped out in various states of either panic, bewilderment, or easy-going acceptance. "Uh, hi. Can we use your phone? Our bus is... well, dying," one of them said. Underneath shades, his eyes twinkled. "I’m sure it’ll come back alive," mumbled Ray, the torn rain jacket kid, tapping the hood like it was his cranky grandmother. Then there was Tish, artistically disheveled in the way that screamed "writes poetry in forbidden places." She flipped an oversized ring and mused, "That bus carries our summer tour – at least, that's what we're calling it." As quick as a good song on a bad day, our diner became their temporary home. Playing host, I'd show up every day for the coming weeks, peppering pancakes with hospitality and getting lost in their stories. They helped – kind of. Tish painted her dreams onto old posters. I remember the one of a giant strawberry with tiny human wings. "So hopeful," she said mysteriously. Louis – the smile guy – sang, breaking into harmonies so sweet even the grumpiest trucker coughed up a laugh. I wouldn't lie, it's nice having them around. And I guess I'd been blind to the whimsy around me until they gently threw it on my lap – cradled like a newborn idea, fragile but determined. One late afternoon, they'd suggested we have a diner bash. "Let’s invite the town," Louis said, eating fries like it was some worldly secret. "Town doesn't take kindly to parties, especially impromptu ones," I warned. And yet, like all good acts of defiance, it took root anyway. Come the heart of July, we turned