On October 13th of 2016, I published my seventh book.
Although I had gone through the writing, editing, and publishing process six times before, I just knew in my gut that something was different about this one. It felt closer to home.
It was real, raw, emotional, and absolutely excruciating to write.
I think that’s when you know you’ve created something magical – when the pain outweighs the pleasure.
A Love Letter to Whiskey was born during a tumultuous time in my life. I was in the middle of an ugly and heartbreaking divorce, while also on the cusp of discovering a part of me that had been dying to break free. The same way Jamie and B struggled against their warring emotions, I did the same with my own.
I’ll never forget the day this book was published, how I cried tears of joy and celebrated both my birthday and the birthday of a book I knew would hold a special space in my heart forever.
But the way you, the readers, received this book?
I never saw that coming.
And it absolutely blew me away.
Since its publication in 2016, A Love Letter to Whiskey has been made an Amazon Top 10 Bestseller in the United States, an international bestseller in Italy, Israel, Canada, Australia, and the United Kingdom, an audiobook that brought me to tears the first time I listened to it, a limited-edition cover for the Hello, Lovely Box, and perhaps more than anything – the book everyone thinks of when they hear my name.
To say it has been an honor is the biggest understatement of all time.
When I attend book conventions, this book is hands down the one most frequently brought up by readers meeting me for the first time. I have held you as we sobbed together over how close to home some of these painful moments hit, and your stories have stayed with me long after our interactions. The countless social media messages, emails, and handwritten letters could wallpaper an entire room, and still, I can’t find the right words to thank you for sharing those confessions with me.
Through all this, however, there has been one rather big complaint over the years…
The ending.
How could I do that, leave you with just six little words to wrap up eleven years of torture?
In my heart, that was the right ending. And from the emotion it evoked in many of you, I think you agree – even if you also want to strangle me, which is completely fair.
Still, I wanted to do something special to celebrate the fifth anniversary of this precious book baby coming to life.
And so, it is with deep pleasure that I present to you Love, Whiskey at the end of this special five-year anniversary edition.
Love, Whiskey is Jamie’s side of the story, as well as an extended epilogue to show you more of what happened after that torturous end.
You’ll also find bonus content with letters I’ve written over the years, a few behind-the-scenes fun facts, and a letter from Lauren Sweet, the narrator of the audiobook, as she shares how this story has stayed with her through the years, too.
This edition is for you, my lovely readers. Thank you for screaming your love for this book at the top of your lungs, and for showing me more joy and gratitude than I ever imagined possible. I am humbled by your passion and truly honored to share a connection with you through the written word.
Here’s to another shot…
Because let’s be honest – the addiction never dies.
All my love,
Kandi Steiner
To Sasha Whittington,
my very best friend and the only girl
who loves the burn of whiskey
just as much as I do.
This one’s for you.
One day, whether you are 14, 28, or 65,
you will stumble upon someone who will start a fire in you that cannot die.
However, the saddest, most awful truth you will ever come to find—
is they are not always with whom we spend our lives.
—Beau Taplin
IT’S CRAZY HOW FAST the buzz comes back after you’ve been sober for so long.
I opened my door and felt tipsy just at the sight of him, eyes blurring and legs shaking. It used to take me at least a shot to get to this point, but my tolerance level had been weakened by distance and time, and just seeing him warmed my blood. I gripped the knob tighter, as if that’d help, but it was like trying to chug water after passing the point of no return.
Whiskey stood there, on my doorstep, just like he had one year before. Except this time, there was no rain, no anger, no wedding invitation — it was just us.
It was just him — the old friend, the easy smile, the twisted solace wrapped in a glittering bottle.
It was just me — the alcoholic, pretending like I didn’t want to taste him, realizing too quickly that months of being clean didn’t make me crave him any less.
But we can’t start here.
No, to tell this story right, we need to go back.
Back to the beginning.
Back to the very first drop.
THE FIRST TIME I tasted Whiskey, I fell flat on my face.
Literally.
I was drunk from the very first sip, and I guess that should have been my sign to stay away.
Jenna and I were running the trail around the lake near her house, sweat dripping into our eyes from the intense South Florida heat. It was early September, but in South Florida, it might as well have been July. There was no “boots and scarves” season, unless you counted the approximately six weeks in January and February where the temperature dropped below eighty degrees.
As it was, we were battling ninety-plus degrees, me trying to be a show off and prove I could keep up with Jenna’s cheerleading training program. She had finally made the varsity squad, and with that privilege came ridiculous standards she had to uphold. I hated running — absolutely loathed it. I would much rather have been on my surfboard that day. But fortunately for Jenna, she had a competitive best friend who never turned down a challenge. So when she asked me to train with her, I’d agreed eagerly, even knowing I’d have screaming ribs and calves by the end of the day.
I saw him first.
I was just a few steps ahead of Jenna, and I’d been staring down at my hot pink sneakers as they hit the concrete. When I looked up, he was about fifty feet away, and even from that distance I could tell I was in trouble. He seemed sort of average at first — brown hair, lean build, soaked white running shirt — but the closer he got, the more I realized just how edible he was. I noticed the shift in the muscles of his legs as he ran, the way his hair bounced slightly, how he pressed his lips together in concentration as he neared us.
I looked over my shoulder, attempting to waggle my eyebrows at Jenna and give her the secret best friend code for “hot guy up ahead,” but she had stopped to tie her shoes. And when I turned back around, it was too late.
I smacked into him — hard — and fell to the pavement, rolling a bit to soften the fall. He cursed and I groaned, more from embarrassment than pain. I wish I could say I gracefully picked myself up, smiled radiantly, and asked him for his number, but the truth is I lost the ability to do anything the minute I looked up at him.
It was an unfamiliar, warm ache that spread through my chest as I used my hand to shield the sun streaming in behind his silhouette, just how you’d expect the first sip of whiskey to feel. He was bent over, hand outstretched, saying something that wasn’t registering because I had somehow managed to slip my hand into his and just that one touch had set my skin on fire.