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As we pile into the van—Mom already planning the itinerary, Callie rating the AC, Jameson refusing to sit near her, Brynn and King wrestling for a window, Fork Guy offering to predict the outcome of our whole trip—I realize we’re just getting started.

If the airport was any hint, Dubai has no idea what’s about to hit it.

Our home base is the Burj Al Arab—Dubai’s iconic sail-shaped hotel, like someone designed it just to scream “luxury.” Mom’s hotel points have blessed us with suites so fancy I half expect the furniture to start talking.

Camdyn and I have our own suite, balcony over the Gulf, a bathroom so big it has its own bathroom, and a bed like a marshmallow cloud.

Fork Guy’s room connects to ours by a private door—because apparently “emotional support fork” is a thing.

He keeps popping in unannounced, armed with midnight snacks and unsolicited pep talks about “manifesting good vibes and great sandwiches.” I’m convinced he’s got the staff thinking we’re an influencer entourage, especially after he tried to tip the bellhop with a tarot reading and half a Toblerone.

Jameson’s standing in the hallway, arms crossed, refusing to set foot inside our chaos.

“I’m getting my own room,” he announces, like he’s dropping a rap album.

“I need space. I’m booking a desert safari—alone.

Don’t text unless it’s an emergency or you need bail.

” He’s already got the concierge on speed dial, asking about quad bikes and whether the camels come with WiFi.

King’s figuring out which elevator button delivers him straight to the rooftop pool, Brynn’s marveling at the free toiletries. “These are full-sized! I’m stealing everything!”

Callie is sprawled on the couch taking selfies with the gold-plated minibar. Mom’s in her element, sipping tea and interrogating the butler about “life-changing shawarma.”

All I want is five uninterrupted minutes alone with Camdyn.

Just five. But every time we sit together, Fork Guy appears like the world’s most annoying genie.

“Don’t mind me, just clearing the space of negative energy!

” he says, waving incense he probably smuggled through customs. “Jaxon, your aura is extra spicy today. Camdyn, want a card reading? On the house.”

Camdyn laughs and drags me out onto the balcony, finally away from the madness. The view is insane. The city looks like sci-fi, and for a second, it’s just us, the sunrise, and Fork Guy in the background loudly trying to order “room service hummus for spiritual purposes.”

If this is luxury, I could get used to it—assuming Fork Guy ever lets us have a moment alone.

Dinner the first night is a group affair—Mom’s orders.

She’s wrangled us all into the hotel’s restaurant, which looks like Versailles if Versailles had a sushi bar and mood lighting that makes everyone look ten percent hotter.

There are more forks on the table than menu items, an existential crisis for Fork Guy.

He spends five minutes debating which one is “spiritually resonant,” while a waiter hovers, probably wishing he’d taken that IT job his cousin offered.

Mila—my mom—is in rare form, swirling wine and giving the waiter her best “I’m fun, but I bite” look.

She insists we order “one of everything, let’s live a little!

” and then proceeds to grill the sommelier about whether the house white pairs better with “bad decisions or existential dread.” The guy blinks twice and recommends a rosé, just to be safe.

Jameson sits at the far end, scrolling through safari reviews and muttering about “finding himself among the dunes.”

“I’m serious,” he says to no one in particular, “if I’m not back by sunrise, tell my story.”

Camdyn smirks. “We’ll tell them you were eaten by a sandworm.”

King and Brynn are playing footsie under the table, not subtle at all, and Callie is busy documenting the meal for her “future followers.” She’s narrating a TikTok about the “top five things you didn’t know were edible and gold.”

Fork Guy, naturally, is offering the waitstaff tarot readings between courses. “You’ve got Tower energy tonight, my dude,” he tells the busboy, who looks flattered and slightly alarmed.

Mom rallies the troops. “Let’s toast,” she says, lifting her glass. “To new adventures, good friends, and never getting banned from Emirates—again.” Everyone laughs, except Fork Guy, who proudly crosses his fingers behind his back.

The dinner is loud, messy, perfect. Laughter, spilled water, an incident with a flaming dessert that’s definitely Instagram-bound, and at least one group selfie with Mom making bunny ears behind King’s head.

By dessert, Camdyn leans into me, grinning. “This is insane.”

I watch Fork Guy try to manifest extra baklava with positive thinking. “Yeah,” I say. “But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Mom has every day planned. Day one: the gold souk, a chaotic maze of glittering shops where Fork Guy launches into a story about his “long-lost cousin, Prince Chad of Forkistan”—who supposedly owes him money and a throne.

He tries to haggle for a necklace by reciting a poem about forks and destiny.

The shop owner raises an eyebrow and offers him a plastic tiara.

Fork Guy wears it proudly, posing for selfies with tourists and bowing to every guard he passes.

Jameson and King are scammed into buying matching “I ?? Sand” hats. They wear them like badges of honor, despite looking like walking beach balls. Jameson insists he’s “blending in with the locals,” which is a bold claim for a guy whose only Arabic word is “hummus.”

Mom leads us through the market like a cruise director on a Red Bull bender.

She quizzes every vendor about their “personal gold philosophy” and talks her way into a tea tasting with a jeweler who claims he made a ring for Beyoncé.

She brings us tiny cups of cardamom tea “for luck,” and threatens to buy Fork Guy a matching tiara in rose gold if he won’t stop quoting Game of Thrones at strangers.

Camdyn and I sneak away to a tiny shawarma stand tucked behind a glittering window display. We sit in the shade, knees touching under a wobbly plastic table.

She laughs at Fork Guy’s tiara drama, then leans her head on my shoulder and sighs, “This is amazing, you know that?”

I nudge her back, grinning. “Yeah, amazingly nuts. Twenty says Fork Guy gets arrested before we leave.”

“Oh, for real.” She smiles, and for a minute, it’s just us, the smell of roasting meat, and the city buzzing around us. I stare at her, caught off guard by her beauty and realizing I’ve never been more in love.

Brynn and King get henna tattoos from a lady with gold bangles up to her elbows. King tries for “Desert King” in Arabic, but she giggles and draws a camel. Brynn asks for a lotus and gets something kind of pineapple-ish but loves it anyway.

Fork Guy tries to get “Fork Life” henna’d on his bicep, but his accent or his aura confuses the artist, and he ends up with a smiley face that looks suspiciously like a pineapple. He shows it off like it’s a family crest.

Jameson spends most of the afternoon shamelessly flirting with a local girl selling perfumes. He’s laying it on thick, tossing out phrases he definitely Googled, while Callie lurks nearby, shooting daggers his way and pretending to be deeply invested in fancy soaps.

When the girl laughs, Callie nearly combusts. She grabs a bottle of rosewater, storms over, and “accidentally” sprays it in Jameson’s direction. “Oops. Sorry. Allergies.”

Callie spends the rest of the day negotiating with carpet vendors for “the perfect Instagram backdrop,” and leaves with a tiny rug and a promise to tag their shop. She’s still glaring at Jameson, who’s now convinced he could’ve gotten the girl’s number if Callie hadn’t “intervened.”

By the time we regroup, we’re all a little sunburned, a little glittery, and definitely carrying more gold-plated junk than anyone needs. Mom declares victory and rounds us up for ice cream. Fork Guy bows, tiara gleaming, and says, “Lead on, Queen Mila, sovereign of snacks and savings.”

She curtsies right back, and for one weird, perfect moment, the whole souk applauds.

The next day, Mom’s got us up at what she calls “bright and early” and what the rest of us call “technically still night.” Our destination: the Miracle Garden, which is basically a fever dream of flowers—giant peacocks made out of petunias, heart-shaped tunnels, and a display of sunflowers that could swallow Fork Guy whole if given the chance.

He’s convinced at least one of the topiaries is “spiritually communicating” with him.

Fork Guy, armed with his ever-present tarot deck and wearing his plastic tiara like a crown, sets up shop on a park bench.

He starts reading cards for random tourists and offering unsolicited fortunes to anyone who makes eye contact.

“You’re about to blossom,” he tells a confused German couple, fanning out the cards with a flourish.

“But beware of pigeons. They’re agents of chaos.

” The couple thanks him politely and back away, glancing at the nearest exit.

Jameson and King are busy taking selfies in front of a wall of flowers spelling out “LOVE.” King tries to convince Brynn to pose for a “couple goals” photo, but she’s more interested in getting the perfect boomerang of her henna.

Callie is busy hunting for the best lighting, documenting the whole thing for her followers, though her eyes keep flicking over to Jameson every time he so much as breathes in the direction of another cute tourist.

Mid-morning, Mom springs her surprise activity on us: camel riding in the desert.